I walked down a shopping street this evening. 17th December. A week before Christmas Eve. But I must have been on an alien planet.
No lights above the road showing flying reindeer: perhaps no runner-up from Big Brother 5 had turned up to turn on about a month ago.
No Salvation Army band, bang on the money after practising for this moment for 11 months. (You know they spend weeks just planning the staggers in their breathing so as to keep the dynamics even in Silent Night?)
No German markets to peruse the overpriced wooden toys and then just buy another gluwein.
And I couldn’t see my breath, what with it still being over 25 degrees and that.
Christmas doesn’t really happen here – at least not publically. There are over half a million Christians in Bombay, and they’ll certainly have a cracking Crimbo – although they probably don’t have Noddy Holder or Morecambe and Wise, which frankly seems like missing the point to me. But not one of the hundred irritating adverts on telly at the moment is festive-themed; you can walk through a supermarket without seeing a single drop of spray snow or an inch of tinsel; and there’s not nide nor hair of any double issue of the Radio Times with a lame cartoon of Father Christmas on the front for the 82nd year in a row.
But it’s the weather that’s the greatest dampener on things, if you’ll excuse the inappropriate terminology. How am I supposed to start panicking about presents like I normally do at this time of year, when I’m walking around in a t-shirt and sandals? I tell my brain to do it but it just says ‘yeah whatever, turn up the aircon, snowboy’.
So I close my eyes and gently daydream about what I really want for Christmas .
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Sunday, November 15, 2009
My favourite Bombay road signs
3) Just off Jacob Circle - and sadly ignored:
"Honking Will Not Make The Car In Front Disappear."
2) On the approach to the Bandra-Worli Sealink:
"No Two-Wheelers. No Three-Wheelers. No Buffalo Carts."
1) On the famous accident spot the Western Express Highway:
"Overtakers Often Meet Undertakers."
"Honking Will Not Make The Car In Front Disappear."
2) On the approach to the Bandra-Worli Sealink:
"No Two-Wheelers. No Three-Wheelers. No Buffalo Carts."
1) On the famous accident spot the Western Express Highway:
"Overtakers Often Meet Undertakers."
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Just one more thing
Colombo is a pretty town, all lush and verdant in sharp contrast to Bombay. Life here seems to be good: there’s no evident vast wealth, but there’s also little sign of the extreme poverty that scars every city in India.
Six months or so ago, the Sri Lankan civil war finally ended. Everyone reports that life is infinitely more relaxed, as you’d imagine now that the threat of suicide bombers and air raids has receded. But the signs of recent conflict are still everywhere: the ubiquitous soldiers with big guns, a two-mile late-night car journey stopped three times at checkpoints by security forces (one of whom seems to be pissed). Next morning, the Daily News under my hotel door is blatantly just government propaganda: Pravda in paradise.
Getting off my late-night plane back, there’s a large party of tall young men in matching suits just ahead of me in the immigration queue. They are getting a lot of attention for 3 a.m., and I suddenly recognise one or two of them: it’s the Sri Lankan cricket team.
I can exclusively report that their Aussie coach Trevor Bayliss argued with the immigration man about his swine flu declaration form; that mystery spinner Ajantha Mendis had to wait ages for his suitcase, holding up the rest of the team; and that star batsman Mahela Jayawardene is surprisingly short.
Good spying work. I should be a detective. Where’s my trenchcoat?
Six months or so ago, the Sri Lankan civil war finally ended. Everyone reports that life is infinitely more relaxed, as you’d imagine now that the threat of suicide bombers and air raids has receded. But the signs of recent conflict are still everywhere: the ubiquitous soldiers with big guns, a two-mile late-night car journey stopped three times at checkpoints by security forces (one of whom seems to be pissed). Next morning, the Daily News under my hotel door is blatantly just government propaganda: Pravda in paradise.
Getting off my late-night plane back, there’s a large party of tall young men in matching suits just ahead of me in the immigration queue. They are getting a lot of attention for 3 a.m., and I suddenly recognise one or two of them: it’s the Sri Lankan cricket team.
I can exclusively report that their Aussie coach Trevor Bayliss argued with the immigration man about his swine flu declaration form; that mystery spinner Ajantha Mendis had to wait ages for his suitcase, holding up the rest of the team; and that star batsman Mahela Jayawardene is surprisingly short.
Good spying work. I should be a detective. Where’s my trenchcoat?
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Six and out
I wandered down the steps of the lovely, basic, rustic guest house where I stayed ten days ago in the middle of Dal ni Pol, one of the labyrinthine close-quarter communities that make up the eastern side of Ahmedabad. I was planning to go and have a good look at the handsome Jain derasar or temple opposite, but I didn’t get that far as a gang of kids blocked my path.
Not in a Gorton sense though: it was simply that they were playing cricket and they invited me to have a bat. “Bondjour, mussir” said one. I could have been well offended by that, but I let it slide. Instead, I took my guard, musing on the benefits of sledging in French, and waited for the nine year-old with the whippy left-arm action to wang down the small plastic ball.
The first ball was short of a length, and I played an ugly, Collingwood-esque hoik to the leg side, over the cow fielding at short midwicket, and away for two runs. A good start: so not wishing to get over-excited, I blocked the next two, good length balls both of them. The gaggle of youngsters in the slips started chirruping away.
Then my eyes lit up: a slow long hop. I swished across the line and caught a big top edge, the ball spiralling over all the tiny fielders and onto the roof of a house. Uh-oh.
Really sorry, I said, I’ve lost your ball. Can you get it down? No, not till the people who live there get home next week. How much are they worth? Oh don’t worry about it – just three rupees (about 4p). I offered three rupees, and not one of these 15 or so kids, all of them poor by any standard, would accept it from me.
One of them went into his house and brought out another ball. I told them that my turn at batting was over – six and out by Birmingham rules – but they insisted I have a bowl. So they got to laugh at my risible leg-break action and I think the entertainment was probably worth a lot more than three rupees.
Not in a Gorton sense though: it was simply that they were playing cricket and they invited me to have a bat. “Bondjour, mussir” said one. I could have been well offended by that, but I let it slide. Instead, I took my guard, musing on the benefits of sledging in French, and waited for the nine year-old with the whippy left-arm action to wang down the small plastic ball.
The first ball was short of a length, and I played an ugly, Collingwood-esque hoik to the leg side, over the cow fielding at short midwicket, and away for two runs. A good start: so not wishing to get over-excited, I blocked the next two, good length balls both of them. The gaggle of youngsters in the slips started chirruping away.
Then my eyes lit up: a slow long hop. I swished across the line and caught a big top edge, the ball spiralling over all the tiny fielders and onto the roof of a house. Uh-oh.
Really sorry, I said, I’ve lost your ball. Can you get it down? No, not till the people who live there get home next week. How much are they worth? Oh don’t worry about it – just three rupees (about 4p). I offered three rupees, and not one of these 15 or so kids, all of them poor by any standard, would accept it from me.
One of them went into his house and brought out another ball. I told them that my turn at batting was over – six and out by Birmingham rules – but they insisted I have a bowl. So they got to laugh at my risible leg-break action and I think the entertainment was probably worth a lot more than three rupees.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Lights and lipstick
Sorry for the absence of crass analogies giving ill-informed, trite analysis of the geopolitical currents affecting 21st century Asia in this posting. They’ll be back soon, I’m sure. In the meantime, some random observations.
Smoke gets in your eyes
Diwali is fun.
(a) You get to eat lots of sweets.
(b) The streets are full of rather beautiful enormous homemade paper lanterns with pretty patterns and lovely tassles and things. They make things like Blackpool Illuminations look rather crappy. Although that’s not too hard.
(c) I actually enjoyed the fireworks. I’d not really enjoyed fireworks since about 1987, when I realised that the fireworks at the Bournville Village Fete were exactly the same as the previous four years. These ones were good, though, because I live on the fourteenth floor and many of them exploded about fifty feet away, level with my window. It’s a much better view.
Mata Sari
We drove down Pathe Bapurao Marg, a.k.a. Falkland Road, on Saturday afternoon. Sadly there were no sheep or unexploded ordnance or commemorative plates featuring tin-pot foreign generals being gonked on the bonce by old iron women. There were, however, lots of ladies of the night, even though it was about two o’clock in the afternoon. It’s tempting to make some lame and tenuous reference to the name of the road and the nice lady that it inevitably brings to mind: as the man said, when England was the whore of the world, Margaret was her madam. (Enough wussy pinko politics – Ed.)
Looking for a nicer slicer
Why can’t anyone sell me thick-sliced bread? Why so thin? Have they actually tried making sandwiches with several ingredients all rammed in and then putting them in the fridge overnight and then taking them to work in my bag and then trying to eat them with these tiny thin slices without it all falling apart?
I mean I can get unsliced bread from the posh delis but sliced bread, as somebody once pointed out, is one of the best things, well, ever. But only when it doesn't come apart in your hands and leave you with egg mayonnaise and bits of tomato all over your shirt. Come on bakers, get some nicer slicers.
Smoke gets in your eyes
Diwali is fun.
(a) You get to eat lots of sweets.
(b) The streets are full of rather beautiful enormous homemade paper lanterns with pretty patterns and lovely tassles and things. They make things like Blackpool Illuminations look rather crappy. Although that’s not too hard.
(c) I actually enjoyed the fireworks. I’d not really enjoyed fireworks since about 1987, when I realised that the fireworks at the Bournville Village Fete were exactly the same as the previous four years. These ones were good, though, because I live on the fourteenth floor and many of them exploded about fifty feet away, level with my window. It’s a much better view.
Mata Sari
We drove down Pathe Bapurao Marg, a.k.a. Falkland Road, on Saturday afternoon. Sadly there were no sheep or unexploded ordnance or commemorative plates featuring tin-pot foreign generals being gonked on the bonce by old iron women. There were, however, lots of ladies of the night, even though it was about two o’clock in the afternoon. It’s tempting to make some lame and tenuous reference to the name of the road and the nice lady that it inevitably brings to mind: as the man said, when England was the whore of the world, Margaret was her madam. (Enough wussy pinko politics – Ed.)
Looking for a nicer slicer
Why can’t anyone sell me thick-sliced bread? Why so thin? Have they actually tried making sandwiches with several ingredients all rammed in and then putting them in the fridge overnight and then taking them to work in my bag and then trying to eat them with these tiny thin slices without it all falling apart?
I mean I can get unsliced bread from the posh delis but sliced bread, as somebody once pointed out, is one of the best things, well, ever. But only when it doesn't come apart in your hands and leave you with egg mayonnaise and bits of tomato all over your shirt. Come on bakers, get some nicer slicers.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Sub boys (or, Back to POL101)
There’s a relaxed vibe around Delhi in mid-October. It’s not so hot any more (midway from enamelling-kiln June to the Siberian misery of January, when it gets down to about ten degrees and people have to wear coats, poor lambs); but the sun is still quite strong so if you’re losing your hair you have to wear a hat and look like an, er, Englishman abroad. Otherwise you’ll end up with nasty growths on the top of your head like my grandad did, although he spent about fifteen years in India so it probably takes quite a while.
Anyway, the differences with Bombay are marked: it’s less crazy and full on than the Maximum City, but there’s a general air of on-the-take-ness. I probably use ten auto rickshaws in the time I’m there, and lo and behold not a single one has a working meter and you have to 'negotiate' the fare. Delhi (or at least New Delhi) is a much prettier city than Mumbai, but you have to check your change.
And there’s a big billboard advert that catches my eye, some manufacturer saying they’re “proud to have built India’s first nuclear submarine”. That would never really happen in Europe: you might do a furtive notice on page 12 of Realpolitik Monthly pointing out the fact, but it would all be rather sotto voce.
Nobody here seems to object to the government spending lakhs of crores of rupees on these big weapons for men with small penises, while hundreds of millions of Indians don’t have enough to eat. Of course it all comes down, as do most things, to our twin national obsessions, China and Pakistan.
In the small urban street of Asia, India’s got the overcrowded, chaotic but generally friendly house in the middle, but we’re always concerned about the noisy neighbours next door. They used to be part of the same family but they moved out a few years back, since when there’s been nothing but trouble, often caused by squabbles over the precise location of the garden fence. Our kids like playing their kids at the odd game of cricket, but they have to go up to the park to play because we’ve stopped their kids coming round, basically to annoy the parents.
But these days we’re actually more worried about keeping up with the Joneses over the road. In the old days we didn’t really know much that went on in their house, except that the dad seemed a bit of a disciplinarian. You used to hear some unpleasant noises coming from behind the curtains. Nowadays it’s a bit different: they seem to have come into money and they’re all looking very flash, and trying to buy the affections of the rest of the street with big parties, but their dad still occasionally shows off the big gun he bought years ago, just to remind people, just to keep them honest.
Now we’re not doing too bad ourselves, but we can’t let these guys walk around like they own the place, can we? Doesn’t look like we’re ever going to have quite as much money as them… but we could get ourselves one of those big guns, couldn’t we? Kids – you don’t mind not eating for a few days, do you? (And as a bonus, it would stop everyone questioning my manhood.)
In a few years’ time it’ll be one of those streets where everyone carries a gun. Which always means that everyone’s completely safe, doesn’t it? Marvellous.
I can feel a bad novel coming on…
Anyway, the differences with Bombay are marked: it’s less crazy and full on than the Maximum City, but there’s a general air of on-the-take-ness. I probably use ten auto rickshaws in the time I’m there, and lo and behold not a single one has a working meter and you have to 'negotiate' the fare. Delhi (or at least New Delhi) is a much prettier city than Mumbai, but you have to check your change.
And there’s a big billboard advert that catches my eye, some manufacturer saying they’re “proud to have built India’s first nuclear submarine”. That would never really happen in Europe: you might do a furtive notice on page 12 of Realpolitik Monthly pointing out the fact, but it would all be rather sotto voce.
Nobody here seems to object to the government spending lakhs of crores of rupees on these big weapons for men with small penises, while hundreds of millions of Indians don’t have enough to eat. Of course it all comes down, as do most things, to our twin national obsessions, China and Pakistan.
In the small urban street of Asia, India’s got the overcrowded, chaotic but generally friendly house in the middle, but we’re always concerned about the noisy neighbours next door. They used to be part of the same family but they moved out a few years back, since when there’s been nothing but trouble, often caused by squabbles over the precise location of the garden fence. Our kids like playing their kids at the odd game of cricket, but they have to go up to the park to play because we’ve stopped their kids coming round, basically to annoy the parents.
But these days we’re actually more worried about keeping up with the Joneses over the road. In the old days we didn’t really know much that went on in their house, except that the dad seemed a bit of a disciplinarian. You used to hear some unpleasant noises coming from behind the curtains. Nowadays it’s a bit different: they seem to have come into money and they’re all looking very flash, and trying to buy the affections of the rest of the street with big parties, but their dad still occasionally shows off the big gun he bought years ago, just to remind people, just to keep them honest.
Now we’re not doing too bad ourselves, but we can’t let these guys walk around like they own the place, can we? Doesn’t look like we’re ever going to have quite as much money as them… but we could get ourselves one of those big guns, couldn’t we? Kids – you don’t mind not eating for a few days, do you? (And as a bonus, it would stop everyone questioning my manhood.)
In a few years’ time it’ll be one of those streets where everyone carries a gun. Which always means that everyone’s completely safe, doesn’t it? Marvellous.
I can feel a bad novel coming on…
Monday, October 05, 2009
If you’re fond of sand dunes and salty air
The train from Jaipur to Jodhpur takes nearly six hours, but it’s never a drag. It’s partly because even on daytime trains, you can pull the top couchette down and have a proper kip (why do British trains never have that option?).
But it’s also because of the pleasure to be had looking out of the window, the arable fields in eastern Rajasthan evolving slowly into rocky desert. Somewhere in the middle lies one of the strangest sights I’ve ever seen from a train: a bright pink damp plain stretching for miles and miles, with weird swirls of silver and grey in the foreground. Nothing on Google images quite does it justice, so I’m relaxing my long-held text-only rule and letting you see the pic I snapped, through the window of a moving train on my mobile phone.
It’s called the Sambhar Salt Lake, and the Army medical officer opposite me on the train, heading back to his Rajasthani village on leave from his posting in Lucknow, proudly tells me it’s the biggest salt lake in India. I’m sure he’s right: mostly, I’m just pleased I couldn’t get a direct plane ticket to Jodhpur and had to go the long way round.
Broom with a view
Jodhpur is, as well-documented by thousands of hippies and polo-trouser fans, a stunning little place: the Mehrangarh Fort looks down from its acropolis onto the Blue City below, and the Umaid Bhawan Palace points out smugly where you could be staying if only you had four times the budget.
About forty minutes’ drive away, offering rare shade from the forty degree sun, lies a new addition to the litany of weird museums I’ve visited: Arna Jharna is devoted to the humble broom, and the fine people that have made them for centuries in this part of the world. It’s perched on the very edge of a hilly outcrop: look west and the desert, dotted with well hard trees but otherwise flat as a chapathi, goes on and on before gradually turning into the sky.
Pink City indeed
Back into Jaipur en route home, and time to visit the bad-boy auto drivers I met three days earlier. Nice chaps, but I don’t get the feeling they’re going to be faithful to their wives, should any woman ever be so foolhardy.
One of them (I’ll call him Rohit, not his real name) asks to borrow my phone to check email on the web browser, then promptly uses it to look at gay porn. Well, you have to admire his enormous, er, chutzpah.
Later, we bump into a German backpacker guy and have chai by the side of the road. Turns out the German pleasured old Rohit in the autorickshaw last night. And over there’s the frizzy Canadian that Rohit cruelly rejected the day before. They call Jaipur the Pink City, but I didn't think this was quite what they meant.
But it’s also because of the pleasure to be had looking out of the window, the arable fields in eastern Rajasthan evolving slowly into rocky desert. Somewhere in the middle lies one of the strangest sights I’ve ever seen from a train: a bright pink damp plain stretching for miles and miles, with weird swirls of silver and grey in the foreground. Nothing on Google images quite does it justice, so I’m relaxing my long-held text-only rule and letting you see the pic I snapped, through the window of a moving train on my mobile phone.
It’s called the Sambhar Salt Lake, and the Army medical officer opposite me on the train, heading back to his Rajasthani village on leave from his posting in Lucknow, proudly tells me it’s the biggest salt lake in India. I’m sure he’s right: mostly, I’m just pleased I couldn’t get a direct plane ticket to Jodhpur and had to go the long way round.
Broom with a view
Jodhpur is, as well-documented by thousands of hippies and polo-trouser fans, a stunning little place: the Mehrangarh Fort looks down from its acropolis onto the Blue City below, and the Umaid Bhawan Palace points out smugly where you could be staying if only you had four times the budget.
About forty minutes’ drive away, offering rare shade from the forty degree sun, lies a new addition to the litany of weird museums I’ve visited: Arna Jharna is devoted to the humble broom, and the fine people that have made them for centuries in this part of the world. It’s perched on the very edge of a hilly outcrop: look west and the desert, dotted with well hard trees but otherwise flat as a chapathi, goes on and on before gradually turning into the sky.
Pink City indeed
Back into Jaipur en route home, and time to visit the bad-boy auto drivers I met three days earlier. Nice chaps, but I don’t get the feeling they’re going to be faithful to their wives, should any woman ever be so foolhardy.
One of them (I’ll call him Rohit, not his real name) asks to borrow my phone to check email on the web browser, then promptly uses it to look at gay porn. Well, you have to admire his enormous, er, chutzpah.
Later, we bump into a German backpacker guy and have chai by the side of the road. Turns out the German pleasured old Rohit in the autorickshaw last night. And over there’s the frizzy Canadian that Rohit cruelly rejected the day before. They call Jaipur the Pink City, but I didn't think this was quite what they meant.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Motor musings
.
Very silly mid-off
A few days after getting back to Bombay, I’m strolling home on a Sunday afternoon with a new 999 rupee pair of trainers, my latest doomed attempt to be one of the cool cats. Right outside our block is a fairly busy road with a big flyover above; and underneath the flyover, Sunday is cricket day. There are three games going on – one in between each set of concrete pillars – with about 20 young people involved in each game.
They explain to me that they’re a proper club who play their matches on proper pitches, but this is how they practise – on a concrete strip, no more than twenty yards by fifteen, in between pillars under a flyover. It gets fun when anyone hits it over the low wall that separates the game from the road: a few catches are missed when the ball’s in the air amid the cars and the motorbikes, but then again it’s probably not a very popular fielding position.
Art like a wheel
The art world continues to boom in Bombay, with two new galleries opening in the space of a few days. Being a wine-and-nibbles whore who’ll put on the slap and turn up to the opening of a tin of beans, I’m in heaven. You can tell that the first one is attracting the glitterarti, because the little side street is packed with cars for most of the evening – and, of course, with drivers as well, doing what drivers do best: hang around waiting for that five-minute warning missed-call.
The second opening is all very nice, until suddenly we all get piled onto a shuttle bus to some mysterious ‘annexe’. The secondary site turns out to be a huge abandoned mill, so close to the sea that it smells like Grimsby. In the middle of an open space there’s a hitherto working car, half a dozen sledgehammers and about fifty art lovers, taking it in turns to beat the living foglights out of the motor. It’s strangely compelling, not least for the sight of nice respectable gallery-goers quickly turning into a violent, destructive mob. “Kill the beast! Bash him in!” and so on.
Truck festival
There seems to be a festival on more or less every day at the moment, but tonight’s looked especially fun. After yesterday’s immersion of idols in the sea for Dashera, today we’re worshipping Durga, and she’s popping up all over the place. The roads late at night are jammed with large trucks going nowhere, pumping out devotional music to a throng, some of whom are on the back of the truck, some of whom are covered in coloured water, a large goddess watching over the whole scene appreciatively. It’s all very loud and chaotic, and does mean that some young men with multicoloured faces have to become impromptu traffic cops, but somehow – as always in India – it seems to work.
Very silly mid-off
A few days after getting back to Bombay, I’m strolling home on a Sunday afternoon with a new 999 rupee pair of trainers, my latest doomed attempt to be one of the cool cats. Right outside our block is a fairly busy road with a big flyover above; and underneath the flyover, Sunday is cricket day. There are three games going on – one in between each set of concrete pillars – with about 20 young people involved in each game.
They explain to me that they’re a proper club who play their matches on proper pitches, but this is how they practise – on a concrete strip, no more than twenty yards by fifteen, in between pillars under a flyover. It gets fun when anyone hits it over the low wall that separates the game from the road: a few catches are missed when the ball’s in the air amid the cars and the motorbikes, but then again it’s probably not a very popular fielding position.
Art like a wheel
The art world continues to boom in Bombay, with two new galleries opening in the space of a few days. Being a wine-and-nibbles whore who’ll put on the slap and turn up to the opening of a tin of beans, I’m in heaven. You can tell that the first one is attracting the glitterarti, because the little side street is packed with cars for most of the evening – and, of course, with drivers as well, doing what drivers do best: hang around waiting for that five-minute warning missed-call.
The second opening is all very nice, until suddenly we all get piled onto a shuttle bus to some mysterious ‘annexe’. The secondary site turns out to be a huge abandoned mill, so close to the sea that it smells like Grimsby. In the middle of an open space there’s a hitherto working car, half a dozen sledgehammers and about fifty art lovers, taking it in turns to beat the living foglights out of the motor. It’s strangely compelling, not least for the sight of nice respectable gallery-goers quickly turning into a violent, destructive mob. “Kill the beast! Bash him in!” and so on.
Truck festival
There seems to be a festival on more or less every day at the moment, but tonight’s looked especially fun. After yesterday’s immersion of idols in the sea for Dashera, today we’re worshipping Durga, and she’s popping up all over the place. The roads late at night are jammed with large trucks going nowhere, pumping out devotional music to a throng, some of whom are on the back of the truck, some of whom are covered in coloured water, a large goddess watching over the whole scene appreciatively. It’s all very loud and chaotic, and does mean that some young men with multicoloured faces have to become impromptu traffic cops, but somehow – as always in India – it seems to work.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Goodbye to the circus (for now)
I'm sitting in a hotel bar in Delhi, watching England get themselves out with inevitable regularity, and making 330ml of Leffe last about two hours. I've a 2.30am flight back to Blighty, which I think constitutes a cruel and unusual punishment, and hence a lot of time to kill.
And frankly, in spite of the genuine lure of seeing lots of friends and loved ones, the thought of nearly four weeks away from India - mostly for work - isn't filling me with palpitations. It's not about the clubs and the theatres and the country walks: the contrivances that constitute 'life' in the West. No, it's everyday existence that's addictive.
Today I got in an auto-rickshaw from the office to an event I was attending. On the way, with the hot Delhi air blowing in our faces and that unique only-slightly-irrational fear of imminent sudden death that you get in every auto journey, we overtook an enormous elephant. Not some tourist trap either: this was a working elephant, with a man and a big load of what looked like reeds on his back. I then cheered as we got to a red light, which was great as it meant the elephant could catch us up and waddle past us, its vast backside about a foot away from me. Nobody other than me seemed remotely flustered.
Perhaps, when I'm in Edinburgh or Manchester or Birmingham or London over the next few weeks, I'll see an elephant meandering down the road nonchalantly going about its business. Until I do, that and the thousand other daily hilarities of life mean that I'll be counting the days till I get back to India.
And frankly, in spite of the genuine lure of seeing lots of friends and loved ones, the thought of nearly four weeks away from India - mostly for work - isn't filling me with palpitations. It's not about the clubs and the theatres and the country walks: the contrivances that constitute 'life' in the West. No, it's everyday existence that's addictive.
Today I got in an auto-rickshaw from the office to an event I was attending. On the way, with the hot Delhi air blowing in our faces and that unique only-slightly-irrational fear of imminent sudden death that you get in every auto journey, we overtook an enormous elephant. Not some tourist trap either: this was a working elephant, with a man and a big load of what looked like reeds on his back. I then cheered as we got to a red light, which was great as it meant the elephant could catch us up and waddle past us, its vast backside about a foot away from me. Nobody other than me seemed remotely flustered.
Perhaps, when I'm in Edinburgh or Manchester or Birmingham or London over the next few weeks, I'll see an elephant meandering down the road nonchalantly going about its business. Until I do, that and the thousand other daily hilarities of life mean that I'll be counting the days till I get back to India.
Monday, August 17, 2009
In the name of love
Yesterday saw the first Queer Azadi march since June’s landmark Delhi High Court decision, effectively decriminalising homosexuality in India. There were a good 2,000 people there, and it was a riot – of colours and sounds, not of the Stonewall variety. In fact the police were positively helpful, happily stopping the traffic to let the march through, which gave the activists a chance to assail the poor trapped car drivers, bus passengers and ox-cart pushers with their assorted paraphernalia. I saw an elderly Muslim taxi driver earnestly reading a queer political pamphlet, pausing only to give me a big cheerful smile.
As you’d imagine, all manner of humanity was represented: from the serious middle-aged academics to the go-go boys, from hundreds of hijras in their best saris to sloganeering lesbian activists. The swine flu outbreak didn’t dampen spirits either: in fact it was an opportunity, to create fabulous multi-coloured protective masks. A lot of people wear masks on the march anyway, because they don’t want their faces to end up plastered over flickr or the Times of India or anywhere else their families and employers might be looking.
Azadi means ‘liberty’, which is a nobler ambition than ‘pride’ I think. Pride used to be a Deadly Sin, of course (there’s an obvious cheap gag but even I’m not that sick. Not today, anyway).
But more than that, there’s an energy to the queer movement in India that disappeared long ago in the West: Pride in the UK is a bit about raising money for good causes and a lot about getting pissed or laid or both, with the politics understandably long forgotten. In India, however, there’s a fight to be won: and it feels – for the first time, I suspect – that the good guys might just be on the winning side.
As you’d imagine, all manner of humanity was represented: from the serious middle-aged academics to the go-go boys, from hundreds of hijras in their best saris to sloganeering lesbian activists. The swine flu outbreak didn’t dampen spirits either: in fact it was an opportunity, to create fabulous multi-coloured protective masks. A lot of people wear masks on the march anyway, because they don’t want their faces to end up plastered over flickr or the Times of India or anywhere else their families and employers might be looking.
Azadi means ‘liberty’, which is a nobler ambition than ‘pride’ I think. Pride used to be a Deadly Sin, of course (there’s an obvious cheap gag but even I’m not that sick. Not today, anyway).
But more than that, there’s an energy to the queer movement in India that disappeared long ago in the West: Pride in the UK is a bit about raising money for good causes and a lot about getting pissed or laid or both, with the politics understandably long forgotten. In India, however, there’s a fight to be won: and it feels – for the first time, I suspect – that the good guys might just be on the winning side.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
The swines are at it again
Glorious colonial architecture abounds in Bombay, but I think my favourite is the BMC building, the Gothic classic right opposite the legendary Victoria Terminus. It’s one of those buildings that lifts the spirits every time you see it, another intricacy revealing itself on each inspection, a different random association coming to mind – yesterday it made me think of St Stephen’s Basilica in Budapest, the finest building in a fine city.
And I love the name Bombay Municipal Corporation – it’s got that Chamberlain-esque late-Victorian can-do civic attitude ring to it. No nonsense. Does what it says on the tin. These are the guys that make the city tick: these guys work so that we can play.
Except, that is, when they get spooked by a single new addition to the thousands of other communicable diseases already swimming merrily in our city’s human swamp. Yes folks, swine flu’s hit town, mask-sellers are making a killing, and the BMC has decided to try and shut down Bombay. They closed cinemas and theatres over the long Janmashtami weekend, asked malls to shut and generally said everyone should stay indoors. I suppose the idea is that if nobody meets another human being for three days, then those that have it will stop being infectious and those that don’t won’t ever get it. Bravo.
Except that there are twenty million people here and half of them live practically on top of one another. And swine flu has already shown itself to be practically unstoppable in countries that have far better healthcare systems and far lower population density than here. And, as luck would have it, swine flu isn’t half as nasty as any one of the hundreds of other diseases you can already catch here. All in all, the BMC are spouting nonsense.
Thankfully, they underestimate the spirit of this city: a place that wasn’t cowed by the murderous riots in ’93, or the floods in ’05, or the bombs on the trains in ’06 – not to mention the events of 26 November last year – certainly isn’t going to worry about a new germ to add to all the ones we’ve already got. The malls have been overflowing and the city’s a-buzz. It seems that India, just like the West, is a country that greets authoritarian idiocy with the raised middle finger it deserves.
The only real downside is that I was supposed to go to the theatre on Saturday, and sadly it was one of the venues that is more readily influenced by political pressure. So my play was cancelled. Gah. It would never have happened in Chamberlain’s day.
And I love the name Bombay Municipal Corporation – it’s got that Chamberlain-esque late-Victorian can-do civic attitude ring to it. No nonsense. Does what it says on the tin. These are the guys that make the city tick: these guys work so that we can play.
Except, that is, when they get spooked by a single new addition to the thousands of other communicable diseases already swimming merrily in our city’s human swamp. Yes folks, swine flu’s hit town, mask-sellers are making a killing, and the BMC has decided to try and shut down Bombay. They closed cinemas and theatres over the long Janmashtami weekend, asked malls to shut and generally said everyone should stay indoors. I suppose the idea is that if nobody meets another human being for three days, then those that have it will stop being infectious and those that don’t won’t ever get it. Bravo.
Except that there are twenty million people here and half of them live practically on top of one another. And swine flu has already shown itself to be practically unstoppable in countries that have far better healthcare systems and far lower population density than here. And, as luck would have it, swine flu isn’t half as nasty as any one of the hundreds of other diseases you can already catch here. All in all, the BMC are spouting nonsense.
Thankfully, they underestimate the spirit of this city: a place that wasn’t cowed by the murderous riots in ’93, or the floods in ’05, or the bombs on the trains in ’06 – not to mention the events of 26 November last year – certainly isn’t going to worry about a new germ to add to all the ones we’ve already got. The malls have been overflowing and the city’s a-buzz. It seems that India, just like the West, is a country that greets authoritarian idiocy with the raised middle finger it deserves.
The only real downside is that I was supposed to go to the theatre on Saturday, and sadly it was one of the venues that is more readily influenced by political pressure. So my play was cancelled. Gah. It would never have happened in Chamberlain’s day.
Sunday, August 09, 2009
Size queen
I’ve been killing a lot of insects recently. Actually, that’s a lie: I’ve been trying to kill a lot of insects recently, with that pathetic routine where you follow it intently, then clap your hands like you’re happy and you know it. And the insect is happy too, since it can spot a rubbish human being a mile off and knows exactly when to dart out of the way of my flailing limbs.
Reason is, of course, there are a lot of little bug(ger)s in town, courtesy of the “monsoon”. (I use quotation marks since we’ve had about three proper storms, sporadic drizzle and lots of cloudy, dry days. I’d describe it as a damp squib, except it’s not been very damp. A lovely word, squib, almost never used without the word damp in front of it, unless you work in the pyrotechnics industry or some other explosive-related field such as, er, terrorism. Perhaps worth pointing out, for the record, that I don’t work in terrorism. I could have done, but I never had the Latin.)
Aaaaanyway, the point is that the monsoon brings insects, which bring diseases – not just malaria, but also that nasty dengue fever and the unpleasant-sounding leptospirosis. Everyone quite reasonably gets their knickers in a twist about all of these, the annual increase in hospital admissions proving the case for such thong contortions a posteriori. So I expend considerable effort flapping my arms around like I’m doing a comedy misogynistic imitation of girls trying to catch.
And this is where, dear reader (Hello Mum), I hear you cry ‘Hypocrite!’. Yes, just a couple of months ago on this very site I explained how in the land of Gandhiji, I didn’t want to kill my crickets. Mea culpa: but crickets don’t actually harm you, whereas the flies and mozzies are potential harbingers of doom.
But more importantly, the crickets are bigger. Which means I can sort of see their different bits and they look like real creatures with eyes and big wings and funny legs that they rub together really fast or whatever it is they do. The little flies and mozzies, meanwhile, are just specks, barely a pixel on my sightline: ipso facto, like the people on the ground from the top of the big ferris wheel in The Third Man, they’re so small that in my warped Limey philosophy I conclude that no-one will miss them when they’re gone. I guess I’m just a shameless size queen.
Reason is, of course, there are a lot of little bug(ger)s in town, courtesy of the “monsoon”. (I use quotation marks since we’ve had about three proper storms, sporadic drizzle and lots of cloudy, dry days. I’d describe it as a damp squib, except it’s not been very damp. A lovely word, squib, almost never used without the word damp in front of it, unless you work in the pyrotechnics industry or some other explosive-related field such as, er, terrorism. Perhaps worth pointing out, for the record, that I don’t work in terrorism. I could have done, but I never had the Latin.)
Aaaaanyway, the point is that the monsoon brings insects, which bring diseases – not just malaria, but also that nasty dengue fever and the unpleasant-sounding leptospirosis. Everyone quite reasonably gets their knickers in a twist about all of these, the annual increase in hospital admissions proving the case for such thong contortions a posteriori. So I expend considerable effort flapping my arms around like I’m doing a comedy misogynistic imitation of girls trying to catch.
And this is where, dear reader (Hello Mum), I hear you cry ‘Hypocrite!’. Yes, just a couple of months ago on this very site I explained how in the land of Gandhiji, I didn’t want to kill my crickets. Mea culpa: but crickets don’t actually harm you, whereas the flies and mozzies are potential harbingers of doom.
But more importantly, the crickets are bigger. Which means I can sort of see their different bits and they look like real creatures with eyes and big wings and funny legs that they rub together really fast or whatever it is they do. The little flies and mozzies, meanwhile, are just specks, barely a pixel on my sightline: ipso facto, like the people on the ground from the top of the big ferris wheel in The Third Man, they’re so small that in my warped Limey philosophy I conclude that no-one will miss them when they’re gone. I guess I’m just a shameless size queen.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Whiter Shade of Pale
It’s been worrying me for ages, and now I realise I’m not the only one. If you walk into any chemist’s shop, or the ‘bathroom’ section of any supermarket, you’re assailed by “whitening” products: whitening moisturisers, whitening face wash, whitening everything.
And they’re obviously big news: every other billboard at the moment features Bollywood beefcake John Abraham showing us how he’s got “two shades fairer” thanks to the lovely people at Garnier. Meanwhile a recent tv advert had some other model’s face breaking up into quarter-inch squares, with those ghastly brown bits literally falling away to reveal the inner paler person within.
Now I know this is complex: there’s centuries of ethnic, caste and class history at play here, and I don’t understand the half of it: other people can write about that far better than me. But it’s still a tragic situation if India’s young, impressionable busy girls buying beauty are being led to think that happiness lies in a creating a pale imitation of themselves.
Is this really what you drove out the British for?
And they’re obviously big news: every other billboard at the moment features Bollywood beefcake John Abraham showing us how he’s got “two shades fairer” thanks to the lovely people at Garnier. Meanwhile a recent tv advert had some other model’s face breaking up into quarter-inch squares, with those ghastly brown bits literally falling away to reveal the inner paler person within.
Now I know this is complex: there’s centuries of ethnic, caste and class history at play here, and I don’t understand the half of it: other people can write about that far better than me. But it’s still a tragic situation if India’s young, impressionable busy girls buying beauty are being led to think that happiness lies in a creating a pale imitation of themselves.
Is this really what you drove out the British for?
Monday, July 13, 2009
We might be crap at football, but our kids are weirder than yours
I came into work slightly pale this morning, after several hours of purest agony yesterday. Nasty bout of Delhi belly? Attacked by a rabid dog? Unfortunate incident with an auto rickshaw? No, just several hours watching the Ashes. God I hate being English sometimes.
Happily, there was light relief every few minutes, as Indian TV got to try and sell us some overpriced crap. Occasionally they’d switch from selling other people’s crap to selling their own, in the form of the upcoming season of unmissable sporting treats, all washed down with a generous serving of ludicrous hyperbole.
Cue Hollywood trailer voiceover accent:
“Legends Will Collide!” in some cricket matches
“The Greatest Do Battle!” in the English Premier League
“High Octane Something Or Other!” in Formula One
and
“Who Will Emerge Victorious?” in the Indian kids’ spelling competition.
What? Kids’ Spelling? This is a sporting highlight of the summer? But I suppose they want something home-grown, and it’s monsoon season so it can’t be anything outdoors, and they lost out on the TV rights for International Scrabble Masters, Legends Pictionary and the World Cup of Times Tables.
Happily, there was light relief every few minutes, as Indian TV got to try and sell us some overpriced crap. Occasionally they’d switch from selling other people’s crap to selling their own, in the form of the upcoming season of unmissable sporting treats, all washed down with a generous serving of ludicrous hyperbole.
Cue Hollywood trailer voiceover accent:
“Legends Will Collide!” in some cricket matches
“The Greatest Do Battle!” in the English Premier League
“High Octane Something Or Other!” in Formula One
and
“Who Will Emerge Victorious?” in the Indian kids’ spelling competition.
What? Kids’ Spelling? This is a sporting highlight of the summer? But I suppose they want something home-grown, and it’s monsoon season so it can’t be anything outdoors, and they lost out on the TV rights for International Scrabble Masters, Legends Pictionary and the World Cup of Times Tables.
Thursday, July 09, 2009
Hard Rain
Not to put too fine a point on it, it’s been pissing it down all day. One of the side effects of the monsoon, that I hadn’t considered hitherto, is that a lot more people get in their cars. Add ‘a lot more people’ to the squillions already driving in this ridiculous city and you get what I just had: a six-mile journey that takes two hours. Suddenly, the thought of working 8 till 4.30, and trying to beat the traffic, doesn’t bring me out in quite so much of a cold sweat.
But still there are sights to warm the cockles, including couples clinging to each other on the lovers walk of the Marine Drive shoreline, soaked to the bones as the French say. And they don’t even have the usually stunning view of the Queen’s necklace to spark their romances: you couldn’t see more than about 100 feet. They must be in love.
But still there are sights to warm the cockles, including couples clinging to each other on the lovers walk of the Marine Drive shoreline, soaked to the bones as the French say. And they don’t even have the usually stunning view of the Queen’s necklace to spark their romances: you couldn’t see more than about 100 feet. They must be in love.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Wishing I’d bought shares in a tarpaulin manufacturer
This blog’s been quiet recently, what with having a vaguely proper job to do and stuff, but also I kept thinking “monsoon’s just around t’corner, I’ll write about that. Sweet.” Nice idea, except that there isn’t any monsoon. It’s now about ten days late (but that's Bombay timekeeping for you: it'll probably try and blame the traffic). The humidity's up to about 300 per cent, and the city is sweating more than a priest in the altar boys’ changing room.
And if you think that English people mostly talk about the weather, you should hear Indians in June. The gathering storm is the only topic of conversation, of journalism, of planning one’s life. My inbox is bulging with invitations to monsoon festivals; my in-flight magazine back from Kolkata features ideas for weekend breaks where the deserts suddenly bloom in June; government signs multiply to warn against drain blockages and water stagnation; and everywhere the tarpaulins seem to be breeding, slum-dwellers reinforcing their corrugated rooves, street-sleepers improvising for shelter from the storm.
They say that the first rain of the season is a moment to savour: the aroma more evocative and joyous than anything you’ve ever smelt (better even than my personal favourite, a bakery at dawn on a crisp May morning in a northern English town). But thanks to my fortnight in the UK starting tomorrow night, it looks like I’m going to miss it, and just return for the drabness of a city consumed by damp.
Ho hum – as football fans are wont to say, there’s always next year.
And if you think that English people mostly talk about the weather, you should hear Indians in June. The gathering storm is the only topic of conversation, of journalism, of planning one’s life. My inbox is bulging with invitations to monsoon festivals; my in-flight magazine back from Kolkata features ideas for weekend breaks where the deserts suddenly bloom in June; government signs multiply to warn against drain blockages and water stagnation; and everywhere the tarpaulins seem to be breeding, slum-dwellers reinforcing their corrugated rooves, street-sleepers improvising for shelter from the storm.
They say that the first rain of the season is a moment to savour: the aroma more evocative and joyous than anything you’ve ever smelt (better even than my personal favourite, a bakery at dawn on a crisp May morning in a northern English town). But thanks to my fortnight in the UK starting tomorrow night, it looks like I’m going to miss it, and just return for the drabness of a city consumed by damp.
Ho hum – as football fans are wont to say, there’s always next year.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
It's just not cricket
At first I thought the weird high-pitched squeaking was coming from the slightly ill-fitting back door of the kitchen. Every time I went in there the last couple of days, it seemed to stop once I closed the door tight. Bit of WD40 should do the trick, I said to myself, not being an expert on hinges (or anything, for that matter). Then it started again every time I turned my back. Grrrr.
This evening is different: it’s clearly coming from somewhere different. Under the microwave-cum-normal all-in-one oven thingummyjig. I get near – and then it stops. It’s toying with me. So I start removing all the crap from the cupboard, the stuff that came with the microwave that I never use. And there he is, a lovely Indian house cricket about an inch long, squeezed in between two bits of polystyrene. And his mate as well, hopping around merrily in a very dark cupboard without a care in the world, suddenly chatting away nineteen to the dozen.
Now I would just take out a big book and squish them, only I’m not that kind of guy, particularly not when I’m only a couple of miles away from Mani Bhavan, the great house of Gandhiji and his politics. I’m not sure he would approve.
So I spend the next fifteen minutes armed with a cup and a Microwave User Guide, chasing these two little buggers around the kitchen on all fours as they hop about the place. Frankly, they are winning. My patience runs dry. Thank goodness for big tupperware boxes. I trap one, and punch the air weedily, Tim Henman-style. But there’s a flaw in my plan: this big box strategy is fine for the trapping stage, but the trusty microwave user guide is no longer big enough. Fiddlesticks.
So I scout around this mostly empty flat, wishing I lived in one of my old hovels with magazines and unopened letters all over the place. Redemption finally arrives, courtesy of Time Out Mumbai. I knew it had to serve some purpose.
Soon, both of these little chaps are out enjoying the night air, far happier I’m sure than with the measly pickings on offer in my kitchen. And I have some random skewers and bits of oven paraphernalia that are covered in miniscule cricket droppings: but I’m also free from the tyranny of the squeak – for the time being. Dona nobis pacem, domine, dona nobis pacem.
This evening is different: it’s clearly coming from somewhere different. Under the microwave-cum-normal all-in-one oven thingummyjig. I get near – and then it stops. It’s toying with me. So I start removing all the crap from the cupboard, the stuff that came with the microwave that I never use. And there he is, a lovely Indian house cricket about an inch long, squeezed in between two bits of polystyrene. And his mate as well, hopping around merrily in a very dark cupboard without a care in the world, suddenly chatting away nineteen to the dozen.
Now I would just take out a big book and squish them, only I’m not that kind of guy, particularly not when I’m only a couple of miles away from Mani Bhavan, the great house of Gandhiji and his politics. I’m not sure he would approve.
So I spend the next fifteen minutes armed with a cup and a Microwave User Guide, chasing these two little buggers around the kitchen on all fours as they hop about the place. Frankly, they are winning. My patience runs dry. Thank goodness for big tupperware boxes. I trap one, and punch the air weedily, Tim Henman-style. But there’s a flaw in my plan: this big box strategy is fine for the trapping stage, but the trusty microwave user guide is no longer big enough. Fiddlesticks.
So I scout around this mostly empty flat, wishing I lived in one of my old hovels with magazines and unopened letters all over the place. Redemption finally arrives, courtesy of Time Out Mumbai. I knew it had to serve some purpose.
Soon, both of these little chaps are out enjoying the night air, far happier I’m sure than with the measly pickings on offer in my kitchen. And I have some random skewers and bits of oven paraphernalia that are covered in miniscule cricket droppings: but I’m also free from the tyranny of the squeak – for the time being. Dona nobis pacem, domine, dona nobis pacem.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Cattle class
I woke at seven a.m. yesterday morning, somewhere in northern Maharashtra (or possibly southern Gujarat – it’s difficult to tell), 14½ hours into my 16 hour journey on the Rajdhani Express from Delhi to Mumbai. It’s one of India’s fastest trains, shooting across the country at an average speed of over fifty miles an hour. (FIFTY! Eat my shorts, TGV).
Before the sun went down the previous evening, we had a lovely view of the countryside south of Delhi: it’s mostly flat, farming country, with straw huts dotting the landscape and the odd bored-looking cow to keep us on our toes. Occasionally we’d pass slowly through a small town, where at least half the buildings look unfinished, the bicycle rickshaws skilfully avoid the piles of rubbish, and a handsome temple rises above the throng. And there’s still a cow, only this time it’s wandering along the track, right next to my window, giving me a quizzical, slightly disdainful look like I’ve committed some dreadful faux pas at a cocktail party.
All in all, it’s a much more civilised way to get around than all these ghastly aeroplanes. Where else can you get an 800-mile journey, a comfortable bed for the night, a good supper (mateer paneer, cumin dal, cardamom rice and chapathi, with chutney to spice it up and dahi to cool it down), a well-meaning if slightly mysterious breakfast (a sort of fillet-o-veg with peas and tomato ketchup), lashings of tea and biscuits and a morning newspaper delivered to your bedside… and still get change from forty quid?
Before the sun went down the previous evening, we had a lovely view of the countryside south of Delhi: it’s mostly flat, farming country, with straw huts dotting the landscape and the odd bored-looking cow to keep us on our toes. Occasionally we’d pass slowly through a small town, where at least half the buildings look unfinished, the bicycle rickshaws skilfully avoid the piles of rubbish, and a handsome temple rises above the throng. And there’s still a cow, only this time it’s wandering along the track, right next to my window, giving me a quizzical, slightly disdainful look like I’ve committed some dreadful faux pas at a cocktail party.
All in all, it’s a much more civilised way to get around than all these ghastly aeroplanes. Where else can you get an 800-mile journey, a comfortable bed for the night, a good supper (mateer paneer, cumin dal, cardamom rice and chapathi, with chutney to spice it up and dahi to cool it down), a well-meaning if slightly mysterious breakfast (a sort of fillet-o-veg with peas and tomato ketchup), lashings of tea and biscuits and a morning newspaper delivered to your bedside… and still get change from forty quid?
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Human pyrex
They told me that Delhi in mid-May would be “really rather hot”. Turns out they understated that one, by a couple of reallies and at least one unpleasantly rude word (take your pick). I’ve never been anywhere this hot: it’s about 43 degrees, I’m told.
It feels like a giant, who’s really into ceramics (as a lot of giants are), decided to construct a colossal kiln about ten miles wide. The old cliché about walking into an oven is spot on: occasionally a strong breeze gets up, right in your eyes, which is like a fan-assisted oven I suppose. When I’m accidentally outside for more than about five minutes I start to feel like a cheap, slowly browning chicken. And 15 million people live here?
Luckily I’m staying somewhere that’s posh enough to have air conditioning. It’s also posh enough to have a grand piano in the lobby, although not quite posh enough to have someone actually playing it. Instead, they have a computer programme that somehow knows how to press all the piano keys to Chopin’s greatest hits and bingo! – you’ve got yourself some cheesy hotel lobby music. You can wander right up to the piano and the keys are going up and down but there’s nobody there, like the bastard child of Knight Rider and Liberace.
(PS I was just thinking: there’s a great children’s story waiting to be written about this. Imagine – a magic piano! What fun! I’ll get right on to it and make my fortune! Then I remembered Sparky. Gah!)
It feels like a giant, who’s really into ceramics (as a lot of giants are), decided to construct a colossal kiln about ten miles wide. The old cliché about walking into an oven is spot on: occasionally a strong breeze gets up, right in your eyes, which is like a fan-assisted oven I suppose. When I’m accidentally outside for more than about five minutes I start to feel like a cheap, slowly browning chicken. And 15 million people live here?
Luckily I’m staying somewhere that’s posh enough to have air conditioning. It’s also posh enough to have a grand piano in the lobby, although not quite posh enough to have someone actually playing it. Instead, they have a computer programme that somehow knows how to press all the piano keys to Chopin’s greatest hits and bingo! – you’ve got yourself some cheesy hotel lobby music. You can wander right up to the piano and the keys are going up and down but there’s nobody there, like the bastard child of Knight Rider and Liberace.
(PS I was just thinking: there’s a great children’s story waiting to be written about this. Imagine – a magic piano! What fun! I’ll get right on to it and make my fortune! Then I remembered Sparky. Gah!)
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Election update - news just in...
Ok, I do love the Indian elections after all. Sounds like English Country Walks have some competition...
Thursday, May 07, 2009
Shiny shiny, shiny boots of leather
I'm normally a cheerfully grubby shoes kinda guy. But earlier this evening I passed a shoe-shine maestro on the street, looked down at my feet and said 'aw, go on then, you've talked me into it'. In fluent Marathi, obviously.
So for the next ten minutes I get to watch a real professional at work. I can't help thinking that he's far better as his job than I am at mine, but then he's not alone in that... When he's nearly done, a little kid wanders along from nowhere, grabs my shoes and the man's brush, throws on a little more polish, and attacks them with gusto. Gives them some real humpty, too, no messing about. Two shoe-shiners for the price of one! Bargain. (Although in size terms, it was really only one and a half shoe shiners.)
Any allegations that my newfound interest in shiny shoes is prompted by a desire to use them as a mirror to look up girls' skirts will be firmly denied.
So for the next ten minutes I get to watch a real professional at work. I can't help thinking that he's far better as his job than I am at mine, but then he's not alone in that... When he's nearly done, a little kid wanders along from nowhere, grabs my shoes and the man's brush, throws on a little more polish, and attacks them with gusto. Gives them some real humpty, too, no messing about. Two shoe-shiners for the price of one! Bargain. (Although in size terms, it was really only one and a half shoe shiners.)
Any allegations that my newfound interest in shiny shoes is prompted by a desire to use them as a mirror to look up girls' skirts will be firmly denied.
Smalltown boy
Whistling In The Dark is a new book assembling a series of interviews with Indian gay people outside the big cities, whose lives are not just illegal (albeit with a law that’s almost never enforced) but almost entirely invisible.
At the launch at the Oxford bookstore, we meet a middle-aged, working-class man talking freely of his secret double-life, completely unknown to his wife and kids. Ok, so people still live like that in the UK too, forty years after legalisation.
But what doesn’t happen in the UK is those men appearing at Time Out-listed book events in the nearest big city to their home. It’s a sign of how massively stratified this society is: the chances of news of his appearance filtering back home are basically nil. The world of book launches and the world of ordinary life in small-town India are, well, worlds apart.
The gaping chasm between the lives of India’s classes is in most ways a vile phenomenon; but perhaps one of the benefits of gaping chasms is that you can shine a little light in.
No milk today
I pop into a big shop to buy a little milk. But they don't have the one that I know is ok. This is a tragedy worse than anything devised by Sophocles. So I spend ten minutes comparing the small print on eighteen different cartons of milk looking for the sacred text: "No Boiling Required".
Eventually, I track one down, to the sound of a choir of angels singing in my head. Joy unconfined. It's amazing that when you know next to sod all about how to live in a country, and you know full well that you know next to sod all, the shrapnels you do know take on an importance of epic proportions.
At the launch at the Oxford bookstore, we meet a middle-aged, working-class man talking freely of his secret double-life, completely unknown to his wife and kids. Ok, so people still live like that in the UK too, forty years after legalisation.
But what doesn’t happen in the UK is those men appearing at Time Out-listed book events in the nearest big city to their home. It’s a sign of how massively stratified this society is: the chances of news of his appearance filtering back home are basically nil. The world of book launches and the world of ordinary life in small-town India are, well, worlds apart.
The gaping chasm between the lives of India’s classes is in most ways a vile phenomenon; but perhaps one of the benefits of gaping chasms is that you can shine a little light in.
No milk today
I pop into a big shop to buy a little milk. But they don't have the one that I know is ok. This is a tragedy worse than anything devised by Sophocles. So I spend ten minutes comparing the small print on eighteen different cartons of milk looking for the sacred text: "No Boiling Required".
Eventually, I track one down, to the sound of a choir of angels singing in my head. Joy unconfined. It's amazing that when you know next to sod all about how to live in a country, and you know full well that you know next to sod all, the shrapnels you do know take on an importance of epic proportions.
Friday, May 01, 2009
Flaccid election
Bombay voted yesterday. The first election since 26/11, part of the biggest democratic exercise the world’s ever seen, etc etc. You know the drill: rallies, placards, long lines of voters, intimidation, maybe the odd bombing, all good developing-world election fun. Except that none of it happened.
You wouldn’t have actually known there was an election in South Bombay yesterday, but for the fact that most companies gave their staff a day off so the city was really quiet. I plumped for the train home after work and had almost a carriage to myself, when normally at rush hour you get less than a square foot.
But it seems most people just took it as an extra holiday and cleared off.
You wouldn’t have actually known there was an election in South Bombay yesterday, but for the fact that most companies gave their staff a day off so the city was really quiet. I plumped for the train home after work and had almost a carriage to myself, when normally at rush hour you get less than a square foot.
But it seems most people just took it as an extra holiday and cleared off.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
On a raga tip
.
If there’s a better place to watch a gig than the Bandra Amphitheatre then I’d love to see it.
I’m sat on a ruined stone fort looking out towards the Arabian Sea. Between me and the ocean lies a crescent of huge palm trees, and the moon just about finds a gap to poke through and say hello. Occasionally I catch the reassuring sssshhhhhwwwww of a wave rolling up and over the rocks. But mostly that’s drowned out by about eight hundred young hipsters on the raked grassy banks below me, watching half a dozen brilliant musicians from Bangalore on the raised ground in front of the trees.
Swarathma, the band’s called: they’ve taken Indian traditional music and given it a riotous kick up the khyber, spiced with some Kannada politics and a front-man with the best fro-and-goatee combo since Samuel L Jackson in Pulp Fiction. It’s as if Bellowhead and the Saw Doctors swallowed the Bhagavad Gita one night and went off on a raga tip.
There’s no place like, er, eek
Scary moment back in London last week. Making small talk with someone, chatting about my diary for the trip: “…couple more meetings on Monday and then I fly home”.
She stops me. Home? By which I mean back to Bombay? After less than two months? I wasn’t even thinking about it. But, well, uh-oh. Scary.
If there’s a better place to watch a gig than the Bandra Amphitheatre then I’d love to see it.
I’m sat on a ruined stone fort looking out towards the Arabian Sea. Between me and the ocean lies a crescent of huge palm trees, and the moon just about finds a gap to poke through and say hello. Occasionally I catch the reassuring sssshhhhhwwwww of a wave rolling up and over the rocks. But mostly that’s drowned out by about eight hundred young hipsters on the raked grassy banks below me, watching half a dozen brilliant musicians from Bangalore on the raised ground in front of the trees.
Swarathma, the band’s called: they’ve taken Indian traditional music and given it a riotous kick up the khyber, spiced with some Kannada politics and a front-man with the best fro-and-goatee combo since Samuel L Jackson in Pulp Fiction. It’s as if Bellowhead and the Saw Doctors swallowed the Bhagavad Gita one night and went off on a raga tip.
There’s no place like, er, eek
Scary moment back in London last week. Making small talk with someone, chatting about my diary for the trip: “…couple more meetings on Monday and then I fly home”.
She stops me. Home? By which I mean back to Bombay? After less than two months? I wasn’t even thinking about it. But, well, uh-oh. Scary.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Gotta serve somebody
There’s been one big story in India for the last few weeks, and it concerns Varun Gandhi, the rebel scion of the dynasty that brought us Jawaharlal Nehru and Indira and Rajiv Gandhi, and very much the saffron sheep of the family. He’s said some nasty things about Muslims and spent a few nights in prison for his troubles.
Of course, whenever one of the Nehru-Gandhi clan so much as wiggles their toes it’s front-page news; and in young Varun, the de facto royal family seems to have found its own Prince Harry.
The row brings to mind, though, a conversation I’ve been having regularly. In India in general, and in Bombay in particular, the religious-secular society dreamed of by Mahatma is ostensibly a reality: Hindus, Muslims, Sikhs, Christians, Jews, Jains, Buddhists and Parsis seem to get along pretty well, give or take the odd communal riot when the weather gets too hot. Hindus are the overwhelming majority of course – over 80% across India – but the Prime Minister is a Sikh, the leader of the biggest party a Christian, the President until a couple of years ago a Muslim, and nobody’s remotely bothered. Think for a moment what the reaction would be if that happened in England.
But there’s one religious minority that they can’t seem to understand. We atheists are the odd ones out in India: it’s a country that equates godlessness with rootlessness. The sense here is that it doesn’t matter which set of ancient stories you live by, as long as you’ve got some. As Shah Rukh Khan – Bollywood heartthrob megastar, Muslim, and extremely intelligent human being – recently said about the Quran, the Bible, the Tora and the Gita: “same novel, same topic, just different languages. They are just translations”. Which makes me some kind of book-burner.
I was thinking about this while watching the news coverage of the 20th anniversary of the Hillsborough disaster. I was twelve when it happened, and it coincided with my only brief flirtation with religion. Just an adolescent phase I was going through… ;-)
(It tickled me to see the culture minister interrupted with a chant of “Justice for the 96” to the tune of ‘Go West’ by the Village People. Not because there’s anything funny about the cause, but because that song’s become such an all-purpose football anthem for beered-up hardcases: “one-nil to the Arsenal”, “you’re shit and you know you are”, "Jon Main is the dog’s bollocks”, etc. Not bad for a song about American gay men migrating to San Francisco in the 1970’s in search of, well, something that most football fans probably would rather not think about. But I digress.)
And of course the semi-religious memorial service was held in a place of worship called Anfield football ground, and culminated in the collective singing of that great hymn of devotion, You’ll Never Walk Alone. The greatest performance of that old song is by Johnny Cash, accompanied by nothing but an enormous pipe organ, recorded in a cathedral.
Yesterday the voting began in the general elections. It’ll take a month to complete, followed by several more weeks of horse-trading since no party is likely to get more than 30% of the seats. To the untrained eye, it seems like the national contest is between one lot who are corrupt and incompetent (with the honourable exception of the PM himself); and another lot who are bigoted, corrupt and incompetent. In Maharashtra we’re blessed with a third major lot, who are violent, bigoted, corrupt and incompetent.
It’ll almost certainly be Dr Singh, who’s 70-something, or Mr Advani, who’s 80-something, that emerges on top of the pile when the dust settles (hopefully not literally). But the gerontocracy is set to be short-lived (very possibly literally): in the Congress party, Dr Singh will almost certainly give way in a few years to Rahul Gandhi, who is young, handsome, intelligent and, oh, he’s one of the Family.
The other lot, meanwhile, didn’t have any obvious pretenders to their crown. Until recently, that is, when a young man started spouting dangerous nonsense about Muslims, got himself a very short jail term, got himself on every front page every day for several weeks, and bingo – we’ve got ourselves a contender. His rise to prominence shows the fragility of the secular consensus: but that’s the power you have when your last name’s Gandhi.
Of course, whenever one of the Nehru-Gandhi clan so much as wiggles their toes it’s front-page news; and in young Varun, the de facto royal family seems to have found its own Prince Harry.
The row brings to mind, though, a conversation I’ve been having regularly. In India in general, and in Bombay in particular, the religious-secular society dreamed of by Mahatma is ostensibly a reality: Hindus, Muslims, Sikhs, Christians, Jews, Jains, Buddhists and Parsis seem to get along pretty well, give or take the odd communal riot when the weather gets too hot. Hindus are the overwhelming majority of course – over 80% across India – but the Prime Minister is a Sikh, the leader of the biggest party a Christian, the President until a couple of years ago a Muslim, and nobody’s remotely bothered. Think for a moment what the reaction would be if that happened in England.
But there’s one religious minority that they can’t seem to understand. We atheists are the odd ones out in India: it’s a country that equates godlessness with rootlessness. The sense here is that it doesn’t matter which set of ancient stories you live by, as long as you’ve got some. As Shah Rukh Khan – Bollywood heartthrob megastar, Muslim, and extremely intelligent human being – recently said about the Quran, the Bible, the Tora and the Gita: “same novel, same topic, just different languages. They are just translations”. Which makes me some kind of book-burner.
I was thinking about this while watching the news coverage of the 20th anniversary of the Hillsborough disaster. I was twelve when it happened, and it coincided with my only brief flirtation with religion. Just an adolescent phase I was going through… ;-)
(It tickled me to see the culture minister interrupted with a chant of “Justice for the 96” to the tune of ‘Go West’ by the Village People. Not because there’s anything funny about the cause, but because that song’s become such an all-purpose football anthem for beered-up hardcases: “one-nil to the Arsenal”, “you’re shit and you know you are”, "Jon Main is the dog’s bollocks”, etc. Not bad for a song about American gay men migrating to San Francisco in the 1970’s in search of, well, something that most football fans probably would rather not think about. But I digress.)
And of course the semi-religious memorial service was held in a place of worship called Anfield football ground, and culminated in the collective singing of that great hymn of devotion, You’ll Never Walk Alone. The greatest performance of that old song is by Johnny Cash, accompanied by nothing but an enormous pipe organ, recorded in a cathedral.
Yesterday the voting began in the general elections. It’ll take a month to complete, followed by several more weeks of horse-trading since no party is likely to get more than 30% of the seats. To the untrained eye, it seems like the national contest is between one lot who are corrupt and incompetent (with the honourable exception of the PM himself); and another lot who are bigoted, corrupt and incompetent. In Maharashtra we’re blessed with a third major lot, who are violent, bigoted, corrupt and incompetent.
It’ll almost certainly be Dr Singh, who’s 70-something, or Mr Advani, who’s 80-something, that emerges on top of the pile when the dust settles (hopefully not literally). But the gerontocracy is set to be short-lived (very possibly literally): in the Congress party, Dr Singh will almost certainly give way in a few years to Rahul Gandhi, who is young, handsome, intelligent and, oh, he’s one of the Family.
The other lot, meanwhile, didn’t have any obvious pretenders to their crown. Until recently, that is, when a young man started spouting dangerous nonsense about Muslims, got himself a very short jail term, got himself on every front page every day for several weeks, and bingo – we’ve got ourselves a contender. His rise to prominence shows the fragility of the secular consensus: but that’s the power you have when your last name’s Gandhi.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
In which ‘the Bombay Blog’ threatens to become a woefully inaccurate moniker
.
Bengalaru, Is It You?
The Indian renaming extravaganza that started in earnest in the mid-90s, with Bombay, Madras and Calcutta all disappearing from the cartographical lexicon, shows no sign of abating. Luckily I find it easy to remember the new name for Bangalore, as I can sing it to the tune of the T-Rex classic Metal Guru. I do get some funny looks in my 24 hours there, from people who might not appreciate my fondness for Marc Bolan and his magnificent hair.
Meanwhile, I sample a proper Kannada biryani. If you’re used to the tasty but mild dish beloved of the British curry house bargain-hunter, you’re in for a shock. This one packs a hell of a punch. Jeez.
Return to Deak Ferenc Ter
My stay in Kolkata, city of literature and leftism, is sadly a short one. But I’m looking forward to going back for more, from what I’ve seen – and heard.
To my hopelessly uneducated ear, Hindi, Marathi and Gujarati all sound quite similar: in Mumbai, you hear plenty of all three, but I can’t tell which is which. Bengali, heard on its home turf, is very different: wonderfully gutteral and percussive, like a Hungarian underground train announcement.
A tree! A real tree!
I don’t see too much of Delhi either, but I get a quick look at New Delhi – the British bit, planned by Lutyens, now home to the Indian government. By comparison with Bombay it’s elegant and green, with broad, tree-lined avenues and well-kept flowerbeds. It’s like Port Sunlight with auto-rickshaws.
But then anywhere is green compared with dear old Bombay: it makes Manchester look like Borneo. Trees don’t make anyone money, which in downtown Bombay means they are surplus to requirements.
They say that everything in Kolkata is devoted to the pursuit of learning; in Delhi, to the pursuit of power; and in Bombay, to the pursuit of money. It’s a crude generalisation, but there could be more than a grain of truth in it.
(Which got me thinking about the English cities I’ve lived in.
Since we're in crude generalisations mode, you might say that everything in Bristol is devoted to the pursuit of lentil-eating, sandal-wearing sustainability; everything in Manchester is devoted to the pursuit of a good fight; and everything in Birmingham is devoted to the pursuit of the bus you’ve just missed).
Fruit and nutcase
Back in Bombay, and that brief smile that comes from passing the India headquarters of Cadbury every day, two minutes' walk from my temporary home. Growing up in suburban South Birmingham in the 1980s, we didn't have much to write away about: having the world’s most famous chocolate factory down the road in Bournville was our one and only claim to global fame.
In Bombay, the HQ has some plants outside, all of whose leaves are sprouting resplendent in Cadbury purple. It reminds me of Bournville railway station: it should be offensively crass, but in my hopelessly biased Brummy way, I've decided it's charming.
Bengalaru, Is It You?
The Indian renaming extravaganza that started in earnest in the mid-90s, with Bombay, Madras and Calcutta all disappearing from the cartographical lexicon, shows no sign of abating. Luckily I find it easy to remember the new name for Bangalore, as I can sing it to the tune of the T-Rex classic Metal Guru. I do get some funny looks in my 24 hours there, from people who might not appreciate my fondness for Marc Bolan and his magnificent hair.
Meanwhile, I sample a proper Kannada biryani. If you’re used to the tasty but mild dish beloved of the British curry house bargain-hunter, you’re in for a shock. This one packs a hell of a punch. Jeez.
Return to Deak Ferenc Ter
My stay in Kolkata, city of literature and leftism, is sadly a short one. But I’m looking forward to going back for more, from what I’ve seen – and heard.
To my hopelessly uneducated ear, Hindi, Marathi and Gujarati all sound quite similar: in Mumbai, you hear plenty of all three, but I can’t tell which is which. Bengali, heard on its home turf, is very different: wonderfully gutteral and percussive, like a Hungarian underground train announcement.
A tree! A real tree!
I don’t see too much of Delhi either, but I get a quick look at New Delhi – the British bit, planned by Lutyens, now home to the Indian government. By comparison with Bombay it’s elegant and green, with broad, tree-lined avenues and well-kept flowerbeds. It’s like Port Sunlight with auto-rickshaws.
But then anywhere is green compared with dear old Bombay: it makes Manchester look like Borneo. Trees don’t make anyone money, which in downtown Bombay means they are surplus to requirements.
They say that everything in Kolkata is devoted to the pursuit of learning; in Delhi, to the pursuit of power; and in Bombay, to the pursuit of money. It’s a crude generalisation, but there could be more than a grain of truth in it.
(Which got me thinking about the English cities I’ve lived in.
Since we're in crude generalisations mode, you might say that everything in Bristol is devoted to the pursuit of lentil-eating, sandal-wearing sustainability; everything in Manchester is devoted to the pursuit of a good fight; and everything in Birmingham is devoted to the pursuit of the bus you’ve just missed).
Fruit and nutcase
Back in Bombay, and that brief smile that comes from passing the India headquarters of Cadbury every day, two minutes' walk from my temporary home. Growing up in suburban South Birmingham in the 1980s, we didn't have much to write away about: having the world’s most famous chocolate factory down the road in Bournville was our one and only claim to global fame.
In Bombay, the HQ has some plants outside, all of whose leaves are sprouting resplendent in Cadbury purple. It reminds me of Bournville railway station: it should be offensively crass, but in my hopelessly biased Brummy way, I've decided it's charming.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Guilt and absolution
When I first came to India three years ago, my parting thoughts were that in fifty years’ time, Mumbai would be the world’s leading city. Now? I reckon I was about twenty years too cautious.
The pace of change in three short years is something to behold (a theme I’ll return to another time). India is rising, and we in the old world are going to have to go some just to keep up.
And yet…
Every time you stop in a car or taxi in South Bombay, you can bet that within a few seconds there’ll be a tiny hand pressing against a closed window, or reaching through an open one. Often, that tiny hand will point to a deformity – usually a burn-scarred or infected limb, or an amputation. It’s a rare, heartless soul that can just move on, look away, carry on chatting about the economy, the test match, the evening’s entertainment.
But what can you do? Give them a few rupees? Very foolhardy. The tale told in Slumdog, the tale of begging gangs and children maimed for adult profit is not purely a film fantasy.
So, in your commitment to what Michael Palin confessionally called ‘middle-class guilt socialism’, you search out an charity with a good reputation and contemplate bunging them a few bob a month. Got to keep that conscience clear! (I’m rather keen on Railway Children, not least because it makes me think of Jenny Agutter and Bernard Cribbins.)
Which poses the question: how much do you need to bung them to remain a member of the ethical club, to survive the Chorlton Inquisition, to see a mutilated arm reaching towards your window and not feel ashamed of your vast relative wealth? Enough to feed a child dal and rice every day? Enough to pay for a new toilet block a month? Enough to make you actually notice it’s gone, like a financial chastity belt?
It’s a facetious, reductive game, of course. We do what we can, or in most of our cases a lot less than we probably could. And we remember that we had just as much responsibility to those kids when we lived in Manchester as we do now we’re in Mumbai.
And that there but for the grace of god go all of us.
Then when those numbers games get too depressing, you play some more. Give or take a few, there are twenty million people here. More than half of them live in poverty. And Mumbai is by some distance the richest city in India. So what will happen when government programmes, NGOs, trickle-down economics or pure bloody hard work lift people up, as, slowly, they do?
You can see the answer at the railway stations every day. Twenty million people here, and hardly space to breathe: several hundred million who’d quite like to be here.
If you think about it for too long, your head hurts.
Thank goodness for escapism...
Oh! Bombay!
The new cinema at the new shopping centre in Lower Parel is dispiritingly similar to your average UK multiplex, except the Hindi to English language films ratio is about the reverse of that in Birmingham. Oh, and the building’s not finished yet. But nobody seems to mind that.
Just before the film starts, they play the Indian national anthem and project the national flag onto the screen, and everybody stands up. I’m told they used to do that in the UK. Then randomly, half way through, they stop for an intermission. They used to do that in the UK as well. Sadly, nobody comes up through the floor playing one of these.
The most irritating thing (apart from the movie – The Reader – on which more in a moment) is the censorship. Fair enough: they don’t like sex. I can handle that. A lot of people don’t like sex. (Particularly with me, boom boom.) And the rules appear to be very clear – bums are ok, boobs are not. Don’t even think about the really naughty bits. But they could at least make the cuts with a little finesse: here they are jarring, with incidental music cut off in mid-quasi-erotic-crescendo.
Thankfully, it doesn’t matter, because the film is a fetid pile of tripe, reducing the complex, nuanced and historically crucial question of collective German war guilt to a glib semi-eroticised yarn about a boy getting his rocks off and not getting over it for thirty years, with a woman who’s a mass murderer but she can’t read properly so oh ok that’s alright then. Oh give me strength.
On this occasion, dear old Kate Winslet getting her bits out (yet again) is far from the most offensive thing on display.
Thinking about googling ‘combover’
You know you’re getting old when the recession on your hairline is bigger than the one in the economy. But in India, I really am old – six years older than the average person, apparently.
So it’s always a pleasure to hang around some youngsters’ haunt and be made to feel a bit geriatric. Blue Frog is the coolest live music venue in India, and Indigo Children one of the hottest young bands. It’s a semi-private, unannounced gig, but word slowly gets out and before long, the place is busy with kids young enough to be my own - by Gorton maths, anyway. They’re heading to the UK in May. Trust me: they rawk.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)