Goa-waga-raga-naga! So this is what all the fuss has been about? Travellers and old timers, freaks of yoga and meditation, Indian yuppies, trance heads, fat European tourists swilling beer on the beach and this year, lots of Russians – there's an odd combination of people that converge here to live up to the clichés of Goa life.
I’m in Arambol, north of Goa. It's like being at a permanent festival, so I guess you could say I feel pretty much at home. Ask me what I did yesterday and I'd have to think real hard about it. Been in Goa about three weeks, but its difficult to keep track of time. It took me two weeks to get off my arse to find the post office and getting to the internet cafe can become one of the most laborious tasks when all you want to do is just be. Days melt into each other and I'm floating through time with a silly grin stuck to my face. In the beginning I'd get spells where I'd freak out with thoughts that screamed, “I should be doing something constructive, not just sitting here smoking chillums all day!” It's actually hard work doing nothing, but take my word for it, it does get easier and regular counseling sessions that consist of gassing with all those in the same boat, do help. I don't know what I'm doing tonight, tomorrow or next week, so don't even bother asking me.
Goa is a special place
Arambol, the place I’m at right now is the place I want to be and I can see why people are here. It has a very special energy. I see myself in the eyes of the people that I attract. I feel a powerful connection with people. I'm a Blue Crystal Storm on the Mayan calendar, so perhaps that explains it. I'm a hurricane in this town when it comes to communication and people. Sometimes I don't even have to try, I only have to stand there and before I know it, I've made some kind of connection, be it sexual, spiritual, intelligent, heartfelt, emotional, friendly, creative or business. It's like looking into a mirror, generating a greater level of self-awareness and consciousness. It's what I was aiming for, and to discover this in Goa is a privilege and a pleasure.
Trance Parties
Trust me to land in Goa the year the Indian government decides to ban music after 10pm. A couple of so-called terrorists were caught in Vasco de Gama kitted out with Kalashnikovs etc… so military police have been combing the beaches with their funny-looking world war two rifles. The odd helicopter has also been seen hovering about. It'll probably blow over in a couple of months, but the local businesses have been affected. Agonda in the south was not so busy, but I guess it's nicer that way. Despite the beautiful beach, I didn't really take to Agonda much. It was too quiet and the people too cliquey and the sea too calm. I like Arambol, yeah!
Parties at clubs and beaches have still been going on though and I found myself at one on a beach at Shiva Valley recently. Music was so-so, with DJ chopping it up with too many changes, but it was full of plenty of trance nuts, speckled with groups of tourists making an effort to absorb the scene and of course, an abundance of rich young Indians from Mumbai, Banglore and Delhi.
It’s weird to see Indians of India playing up to the psytrance scene and all its happy clappy values about love and spirituality when they live in a country that is regressing in terms of poverty as much as it is progressing in terms of technology. I spoke to one guy about this but he didn't have much of a response, quite possibly because the poor thing was tripping off his nut as I interrogated him...
Hill Top and West End are the two major venues for psytrance parties. I've been to both. Sped off into the night on the back of a bike with a guy called Dave the other week to celebrate Russian New Year at the West End. It was a disaster. The only thrill was getting to the place at top speed, the wind practically ripping the features off my face the entire ride. Too many Russians, twisted and contorted with drugs, and a few yuppie Indians on too much speed. It was shite and I'm not going back. Stark difference in contrast to the pumping daytime party on Sunday afternoon at Hill Top with its sexy psytrance, cool outdoor venue and positive people vibes. Noticed the best parties finish earlier as they're not being run by the rackets that swamp Goa with drugs, arms and prostitutes, which means they probably can't afford to pay the local police extortionate sums of baksheesh (bribes) to break the license law. Investigations underway so watch this space...
Juggling Convention
Juggling convention took place the other week. We sat on beach and watched two globe-headed funksters balance crystal balls on their heads. A rasta boy played a dome-come-UFO-shaped steel instrument from Switzerland known as a Hang Drum, and the silhouettes of pois dancers and jugglers were beautiful as the sea sparkled in the orange glow of the setting sun. The finale was meant to take place the following day but was cancelled with organiser Tom arrested for refusing to pay baksheesh. It cost 70,000 rupees to bail him out. He preferred to have stayed another night in jail just to make a point, but he was a wanted man both in and outside jail – wanted on the outside in the positive context of course.
Permission for event had been granted by the chief superintendent but someone had gone to the top and the complaint filtered down the channels leading to his arrest. Indian police play the dirtiest games and this boils down to the ground-level contact they have with citizens. It's a power trip, even amongst car park attendants and the most miniscule of official positions, giving them importance in their petty government roles. There is a lack of trust and money is the only thing that talks if you want to get anything done. The Russian New Year party stormed on for 48 hours. Doesn't take a genius to figure out how and why. It's such a contrast to the love and spirituality that reigns in India, contradicting the values of Mother India and all that she stands for, contradicting everything that the world's biggest democracy stands for. How can India be the world's biggest democracy when the sheer size of her population serves as bait for corruption? Where is the democracy in that amongst the majority of the 1.2 billion people that are being manipulated with the most common official weapon, baksheesh? Where is the love in that? There is no connection between the spirituality that you can literally visualize rising from Indian soil and the extortionate level of corruption. Still, as a friend suggested, and I am inclined to agree with him, India still is the last safe haven on earth before the complete annihilation of the planet settles in.
Tom got out of jail just a few days ago and the artists of the juggling convention put on a grand finale just last night at the Psybar here in Arambol. A point was made and next year's juggling convention has already been arranged. Power to the people!
Anjuna
German girl Nora and myself hitched lift from boring, straight, event-less Agonda to Anjuna with some film director guy. Think he's meant to be famous, a fact that became a little obvious when he asked, “Do you know my name?” He might as well have said, “Do you know who I am?” I refused to feel stupid in his imposing, patronizing presence, although we did appreciate his offer of a roof over heads and of course the lift at the back of his open-top four wheel drive monster of a car.
Walking along the beach in Anjuna, I bump into my Portuguese friend, Tiago and his Slovakian girlfriend, Natalia. I worked with them at the Boom Festival last year, so it was a surreal moment, totally unexpected! Also bumped into Hugo, one of the photographers from Boom, plus met a crazy Finnish couple, Anika and Yari who became my surrogate parents. They have this dry, wicked sense of humour. We embarked upon a pretty cool adventure together when we walked back along the rocky coastline from Vagator to Anjuna, getting back just as the tide was coming in. Nuts, the pair of them! Advice: Try not to walk over three kilometers of giant rocks after smoking a jay.
Anjuna beach was packed with bodies and bars such as Janet and John's, and reminded me of the Costa del Sol, but in a more exotic environment. The beach didn’t really do it for me, so it became more a case of people rather than place. The interactive vibe between complete strangers from different walks of life is what really inspires me. I guess you could call me a people person. I love my space, but I also like to interact with people and my inquisitive nature has helped me to build some nice connections. Certain people became regular friends over a period of days and it felt like I’d known some of them for more than just those few days. I felt this way with Anika and Yaris in particular. Tiagi and Natalia, I only knew from working at the Boom, but it was magic to bump into them on the other side of the world and spend some quality time getting to know them even better.
The market in Anjuna was also good fun. I hung out with two beautiful German girls and we had fun with the stall holders, telling all their customers to “come look my shop.” It's a shopper's paradise and if you're on a budget like me, then it can be kinda hellish to walk past some 2000 stalls bursting with goodies. I bought some magic body paint and ankle chains.
Arambol – the cake at the end of the tunnel
A week in Anjuna was enough to satisfy my appetite. So here I am in Arambol, the final point in Goa that I was aiming to reach. It's like being at a permanent festival. Travelers rather than tourists seem to flock to this place. Dreadlocks, mohicans, mullets, hippy chicks and pretty trance girls all over the place, everyone sporting sinbad trousers, funky tops and bindis.
I've only been in Arambol a couple of days, yet I've already become a bonafide resident, living in a funky house with two highly spiritually fine-tuned people near a big purple house not far from the Magic Park. It's worked out perfectly in so many respects, I feel blessed that the opportunity came my way.
I don’t want to cheat myself of India by staying here continuously, so the plan is to keep Goa as a cool base from which I can bounce to places such as Anantapur and Tamil Nadu. My time in the south should be done by April, by which time I hope to head for Richikesh and Himachal Pradesh.
I've only been in Arambol a couple of days but I feel like I have done plenty, including finding the post office and taking a mud bath at the sweet water lake. Went there the other day with a guy called Paul from Cambridge and we sat around on the rocks smoking a joint, listening to the sound of the water, the birds and watching wildlife. It was bliss. Next mission is to get to Paradise Beach, which falls under the state of Maharashtra. It's meant to be stunning and I think a few of us will be heading that way on bikes in the next day or so.
According to my flatmate and her Mayan calendar, I'm a blue storm crystal, which is something resembling a hurricane, a whirl wind, a typhoon, that whizzes about at a speed that defies the laws of nature. So I guess I need to work with that energy. It may help me to find what I am looking for. To be happy is no easy feat. It has to be worked at. I think I'm in the best place to do this and I feel blessed by the gods that I am here to try and figure it all out.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Thursday, December 25, 2008
I make a crap tourist
I do. In Jaipur. Can’t deal with looking at buildings all day. Went to the Amber Fort, and it looked like a, erm, fort. It was big. Didn’t want to look at anymore buildings so spent most of the following afternoon sitting on the white-cushioned floor of a tiny shop near Hawa Mahal with an Italian gemstones dealer. We decided on my character before we got there, so told them I don’t speak Hindi, I’m half white and my husband is in Europe. I use Hindi only when I need to use it because it’s not always the best thing for me. I’ve tried the experiment of ditching the piercings and combat-dress style clothing for a simple salwaar kameez, Nazreen styleee. But guess what? It doesn’t matter, the fact that I am woman travelling alone is enough.
The guy’s been dealing in gems for a good couple of decades. I went along to keep my mouth shut and listen in on the conversation. We sipped tea and examined stones and waited in patience for the next broker to come along and impress us with something. These guys are like underwriters. They say the stones have been tested by a lab, but this is not always the case, and even if it as, there is no way you will ever get the perfect stone without running into six figures. So called “fish” marks mean it’s not as good as it could be. My Italian friend found what he was looking for and refused to purchase right until the last minute when they could take no more, and then the deal was done. No problemo!
Everyone tries to shake your hand, all the men that is, but I usually ignore them or respond with a polite Namaste or tell them in Hindi that I come from the sky whenever they try to find out who I am and where I come from. “Aasmaan se aiy hain” seems to work quite well, it gives them a laugh. For me, Jaipur was full of money makers and perverts. I didn’t feel like being a tourist in this town. The people here like to suffer fools too gladly for my liking, everyone so evidently out to make a quick buck out of tourists and then tourists walking around like lambs who have no idea about the slaughter! MI Road is full of international backpackers and that’s where I stayed, mainly because it was central. It was nice to be in the hostel and I had fun with some cool people who were there on business. In fact everyone in Jaipur seemed to be there on business, the regulars linking up at the same hotel. In fact they seem to be having fun at the same time, travelling, making money, meeting people. Sounds good eh? I’d go back, but only if it made good business sense!
The guy’s been dealing in gems for a good couple of decades. I went along to keep my mouth shut and listen in on the conversation. We sipped tea and examined stones and waited in patience for the next broker to come along and impress us with something. These guys are like underwriters. They say the stones have been tested by a lab, but this is not always the case, and even if it as, there is no way you will ever get the perfect stone without running into six figures. So called “fish” marks mean it’s not as good as it could be. My Italian friend found what he was looking for and refused to purchase right until the last minute when they could take no more, and then the deal was done. No problemo!
Everyone tries to shake your hand, all the men that is, but I usually ignore them or respond with a polite Namaste or tell them in Hindi that I come from the sky whenever they try to find out who I am and where I come from. “Aasmaan se aiy hain” seems to work quite well, it gives them a laugh. For me, Jaipur was full of money makers and perverts. I didn’t feel like being a tourist in this town. The people here like to suffer fools too gladly for my liking, everyone so evidently out to make a quick buck out of tourists and then tourists walking around like lambs who have no idea about the slaughter! MI Road is full of international backpackers and that’s where I stayed, mainly because it was central. It was nice to be in the hostel and I had fun with some cool people who were there on business. In fact everyone in Jaipur seemed to be there on business, the regulars linking up at the same hotel. In fact they seem to be having fun at the same time, travelling, making money, meeting people. Sounds good eh? I’d go back, but only if it made good business sense!
Pushkar People
Pushkar put a spell on me. I can't really explain it in any other way. You don't walk through its bazaar, you float through it. It's like a medieval festival full of mystical characters. The people here have a mannerism that I haven't noticed anywhere else in India. They will charm you, grab your attention in witty ways and become faces that you get to know on first-name terms in a matter of hours.
People in Pushkar are all about connecting. Pushkar Lake at sunset was the best time of the day to do this with the locals, especially the kids that literally hang off you like monkeys, speaking defiantly in their half-broken English and getting highly cheeky and mischevious!
There's a few trippy characters too, including the guy who gave Isabelle a massage. Rolling his eyes as he massaged her hand, this guy managed to convince her to strip down to her knickers in no more than sixty seconds because by the time I'd got back from the toilet, she was starkers and straddled. It might have been the red light in the room or the fact he wanted me to strip down and lie on the bed next to her too, but it was all a bit horny. He did the job well though because it was just what her back needed.
Pushkar came to be placed on the map a a result of the Godhead Brahma, who planted a lotus flower at the spot now known as Pushkar Lake. The Brahma Mandir in Pushkar is meant to be the only temple in the world devoted to Brahma. It's also a sanctury of just a handful of the 30 million gods of the Hindu religion, including Vishnu, Shiva and Hanuman.
But it's not the tourist attractions that make the impact, it's the feeling you get when you walk into the town. Following the intensity of chaos in places like Delhi, Agra and Jaipur, this place felt bliss! You feel embraced by a spiritual energy, it's real chilled and there's no place here for meat, eggs or alcohol although bhang lassi is on the unofficial menu and can be obtained quite easily. Mind blowing stuff, or so I've heard...
Pushkar made me realise a few things about the way we connect with each other, how the energy of other people is a reflection of your energy and how easy you see this in the eyes of others. It made clearer the philosophy of Self. It was a graphic illustration of how visualisations can be manifested and gave me even more faith in the universe. I'm happy I had this experience and def plan on coming back.
Have lots of groovy pics by the way. Blogger takes an age to upload them. gonna think of another solution. any ideas anyone, let me know!
People in Pushkar are all about connecting. Pushkar Lake at sunset was the best time of the day to do this with the locals, especially the kids that literally hang off you like monkeys, speaking defiantly in their half-broken English and getting highly cheeky and mischevious!
There's a few trippy characters too, including the guy who gave Isabelle a massage. Rolling his eyes as he massaged her hand, this guy managed to convince her to strip down to her knickers in no more than sixty seconds because by the time I'd got back from the toilet, she was starkers and straddled. It might have been the red light in the room or the fact he wanted me to strip down and lie on the bed next to her too, but it was all a bit horny. He did the job well though because it was just what her back needed.
Pushkar came to be placed on the map a a result of the Godhead Brahma, who planted a lotus flower at the spot now known as Pushkar Lake. The Brahma Mandir in Pushkar is meant to be the only temple in the world devoted to Brahma. It's also a sanctury of just a handful of the 30 million gods of the Hindu religion, including Vishnu, Shiva and Hanuman.
But it's not the tourist attractions that make the impact, it's the feeling you get when you walk into the town. Following the intensity of chaos in places like Delhi, Agra and Jaipur, this place felt bliss! You feel embraced by a spiritual energy, it's real chilled and there's no place here for meat, eggs or alcohol although bhang lassi is on the unofficial menu and can be obtained quite easily. Mind blowing stuff, or so I've heard...
Pushkar made me realise a few things about the way we connect with each other, how the energy of other people is a reflection of your energy and how easy you see this in the eyes of others. It made clearer the philosophy of Self. It was a graphic illustration of how visualisations can be manifested and gave me even more faith in the universe. I'm happy I had this experience and def plan on coming back.
Have lots of groovy pics by the way. Blogger takes an age to upload them. gonna think of another solution. any ideas anyone, let me know!
Friday, December 12, 2008
From Pushkar With Love...
From Pushkar With Love
Wow. This is the feeling I've been searching for in India. This is the India I’ve been wanting to experience. The concentration of faith, belief in God, in the human race and in the Universe explains why one can be so overwhelmed by the energy that reverberates every through every nook and cranny of India. It also explains why there is no other country in this world like India. This energy can be felt in every ghat, street alley, riverside community, mountain dwelling, city suburb, village, town, city space, every dirt track, practically everywhere that there are people to be found. The energy resonates from the hearts and souls of India's 1.2 billion people. The collective power of universal oneness! Energy levels are greater in some places than in others. It’s something that comes to mind when you happen to be walking down a street and it just hits you, stopping you in your tracks. It feel as if some magical puff of smoke has transformed the signal of your senses as you absorb these now suddenly different variables of the external environment. One such place is Pushkar, Rajasthan.
I'd been travelling since 6am and finally arrived in Pushkar late afternoon. Yet the journey was not quite over as the comical scenario trying to get off the actual bus proved more than just a little trying. People are pushing to get on the bus like a herd of elephants. Only one tiny set of doors on the bus are open. The people on the bus trying to get off are trapped as the swarm attempting to get on are blocking the doors! It’s a slightly aggressive push-shove situation and I plead with the driver to allow me to get out from his side but he's not having any of it. My rucksack is huge and I have to use considerable force and literally fight to get out of there. It shows that despite the mellow, peaceful, vibe of this place, there is nothing to tame Indians when it comes to bagging your place on public transport!
The Krishna Guesthouse was a short walk away, near to the Vishnu Mandir. There are bhajans blaring from the loudspeakers of the temple. You could very easily slip in a nice little drum n bass mix, or even better, a psytrance bassline. In fact I can hear the distant sound of drums as I write this text. It's almost midnight, and despite the fact all action on the streets dies down by about 9pm, one of the restaurants in town is having their Friday night rave with bhajans, dancing and chants. It sounds like the distant vibrations emanating from a psytrance festival.
I'm here in Pushkar with Isabelle, a French rasta girl I met on the plane from London to Delhi. By the time I'd arrived, she'd linked up with a few other Frenchies, three very witty, good-humoured guys that are totally integrated into Indian life, taking it in their stride. They've been coming to India for 15 years and speak pretty good Hindi. One of them, a blonde rasta, with a lovely interactive aura, has been studying Sanskrit in Bodhgaya. We smoked some nice hash from Parvati Valley, which is up in the state of Himachal Pradesh, a place I plan on visiting in a few months time. It feels really good to connect with people who are so in love with India and so clued up about its various parts.
To enter India is like entering the cosmic universe. The doors have been opened and suddenly you realise you are there. Boom! Boom Boley Naath! The latter is in reference to Shiva, the god of creation and destruction, whose name is pronounced before inhaling the holy smoke of the chillum. Puff and you are there! Praise the Gods, praise the Universe created by them, praise the positive energy they shower upon us and the good vibrations that this creates between each and every one of us!
One thing that I must mention though, without putting a downer on all this positivity, is the registration process in this particular hostel. Perhaps it's as a result of the Mumbai bombings, but when I went to register, I discovered it was not just my name and passport number that they wanted. They also wanted my visa number, visa start and expiry dates, the place in India that I had arrived from and the one that I am going to next, duration I expect to stay in the country, date I arrived into the country, the airport I flew from and to, my date of birth and my UK address.
There's no denying the beauty of the hostel we are in with its grassy courtyard, maze of stairs that take you up to its many roof terraces, its Rajput architecture that will lead you up to its highest points from where you can just sit and watch the sunset or sunrise, it's basic yet fabulous, clean rooms with ensuite bathrooms and hot showers, etc. Despite all this, I can't get my head around the registration process and can't help but question the guy at reception. He refuses to give me any information, but I'm curious so I badger him and we're going around in circles. Me: “Why do you need to know where I'm going next?” Him: “Because I have to know.” Me: “But for what reason are you collecting so much information and why do you have to know? Who is this information for?” Him: “Because it's my job and like I told you, I have to know”. I admit I badgered him and yes, he does flip, threatening to report me to the police before describing a scenario where I'd be arrested, locked up and deported. Another guy confirms that the information is being logged for the CID, police, various other authorities and who knows who else. It shook me up a little but the restaurant we all went to a little while later chilled me out. I realize after that every hostel is like this and they have to follow the law. Guess you can’t argue about everything.
The place was like a temple. There was a shrine to Sai Baba in the middle of the courtyard, plants, flowers and trees framing it. We're sitting around its edges on huge cushions smoking chillums around the table. Pushkar is not exactly the gastronomical capital of India so dinner was not so impressive, very bland in fact as I can guess they presume foreigners to have low levels of spice tolerance. A Nepalese kid takes our orders. He speaks no Hindi and no English, and walks away without finishing the order on several occasions, but we have a laugh with him about it all the same. Another waiter joins us for a chillum, forgets the chai I had ordered and sits down with his own cup! He tells us to switch off the lights before we leave. Bliss! On the way home, a little kid tries to peddle us charas, hashish and bhang lassie and mocks us with this non-stop and freaky high-pitched cackle when we refuse his offer.
Pushka is magic. It touched my heart. And to enjoy it with the people that I have met here today, has made it all the more magical. Still have another two nights here, so I hope to bring back some more news on this incredible place at some point soon….. You must forgive the terribe gramatical errors in this text, but I a sure you will undestand that I don't want to use up too much time doing all that because I really don’t want to waste another second absorbing the richness of this place… Time for a little shopping methinks!
Wow. This is the feeling I've been searching for in India. This is the India I’ve been wanting to experience. The concentration of faith, belief in God, in the human race and in the Universe explains why one can be so overwhelmed by the energy that reverberates every through every nook and cranny of India. It also explains why there is no other country in this world like India. This energy can be felt in every ghat, street alley, riverside community, mountain dwelling, city suburb, village, town, city space, every dirt track, practically everywhere that there are people to be found. The energy resonates from the hearts and souls of India's 1.2 billion people. The collective power of universal oneness! Energy levels are greater in some places than in others. It’s something that comes to mind when you happen to be walking down a street and it just hits you, stopping you in your tracks. It feel as if some magical puff of smoke has transformed the signal of your senses as you absorb these now suddenly different variables of the external environment. One such place is Pushkar, Rajasthan.
I'd been travelling since 6am and finally arrived in Pushkar late afternoon. Yet the journey was not quite over as the comical scenario trying to get off the actual bus proved more than just a little trying. People are pushing to get on the bus like a herd of elephants. Only one tiny set of doors on the bus are open. The people on the bus trying to get off are trapped as the swarm attempting to get on are blocking the doors! It’s a slightly aggressive push-shove situation and I plead with the driver to allow me to get out from his side but he's not having any of it. My rucksack is huge and I have to use considerable force and literally fight to get out of there. It shows that despite the mellow, peaceful, vibe of this place, there is nothing to tame Indians when it comes to bagging your place on public transport!
The Krishna Guesthouse was a short walk away, near to the Vishnu Mandir. There are bhajans blaring from the loudspeakers of the temple. You could very easily slip in a nice little drum n bass mix, or even better, a psytrance bassline. In fact I can hear the distant sound of drums as I write this text. It's almost midnight, and despite the fact all action on the streets dies down by about 9pm, one of the restaurants in town is having their Friday night rave with bhajans, dancing and chants. It sounds like the distant vibrations emanating from a psytrance festival.
I'm here in Pushkar with Isabelle, a French rasta girl I met on the plane from London to Delhi. By the time I'd arrived, she'd linked up with a few other Frenchies, three very witty, good-humoured guys that are totally integrated into Indian life, taking it in their stride. They've been coming to India for 15 years and speak pretty good Hindi. One of them, a blonde rasta, with a lovely interactive aura, has been studying Sanskrit in Bodhgaya. We smoked some nice hash from Parvati Valley, which is up in the state of Himachal Pradesh, a place I plan on visiting in a few months time. It feels really good to connect with people who are so in love with India and so clued up about its various parts.
To enter India is like entering the cosmic universe. The doors have been opened and suddenly you realise you are there. Boom! Boom Boley Naath! The latter is in reference to Shiva, the god of creation and destruction, whose name is pronounced before inhaling the holy smoke of the chillum. Puff and you are there! Praise the Gods, praise the Universe created by them, praise the positive energy they shower upon us and the good vibrations that this creates between each and every one of us!
One thing that I must mention though, without putting a downer on all this positivity, is the registration process in this particular hostel. Perhaps it's as a result of the Mumbai bombings, but when I went to register, I discovered it was not just my name and passport number that they wanted. They also wanted my visa number, visa start and expiry dates, the place in India that I had arrived from and the one that I am going to next, duration I expect to stay in the country, date I arrived into the country, the airport I flew from and to, my date of birth and my UK address.
There's no denying the beauty of the hostel we are in with its grassy courtyard, maze of stairs that take you up to its many roof terraces, its Rajput architecture that will lead you up to its highest points from where you can just sit and watch the sunset or sunrise, it's basic yet fabulous, clean rooms with ensuite bathrooms and hot showers, etc. Despite all this, I can't get my head around the registration process and can't help but question the guy at reception. He refuses to give me any information, but I'm curious so I badger him and we're going around in circles. Me: “Why do you need to know where I'm going next?” Him: “Because I have to know.” Me: “But for what reason are you collecting so much information and why do you have to know? Who is this information for?” Him: “Because it's my job and like I told you, I have to know”. I admit I badgered him and yes, he does flip, threatening to report me to the police before describing a scenario where I'd be arrested, locked up and deported. Another guy confirms that the information is being logged for the CID, police, various other authorities and who knows who else. It shook me up a little but the restaurant we all went to a little while later chilled me out. I realize after that every hostel is like this and they have to follow the law. Guess you can’t argue about everything.
The place was like a temple. There was a shrine to Sai Baba in the middle of the courtyard, plants, flowers and trees framing it. We're sitting around its edges on huge cushions smoking chillums around the table. Pushkar is not exactly the gastronomical capital of India so dinner was not so impressive, very bland in fact as I can guess they presume foreigners to have low levels of spice tolerance. A Nepalese kid takes our orders. He speaks no Hindi and no English, and walks away without finishing the order on several occasions, but we have a laugh with him about it all the same. Another waiter joins us for a chillum, forgets the chai I had ordered and sits down with his own cup! He tells us to switch off the lights before we leave. Bliss! On the way home, a little kid tries to peddle us charas, hashish and bhang lassie and mocks us with this non-stop and freaky high-pitched cackle when we refuse his offer.
Pushka is magic. It touched my heart. And to enjoy it with the people that I have met here today, has made it all the more magical. Still have another two nights here, so I hope to bring back some more news on this incredible place at some point soon….. You must forgive the terribe gramatical errors in this text, but I a sure you will undestand that I don't want to use up too much time doing all that because I really don’t want to waste another second absorbing the richness of this place… Time for a little shopping methinks!
Monday, December 8, 2008
Journey to a place of love?
I decided it was time to get off ass and venture out into the bosom of Mother India. The Taj Mahal, one of the 8th wonders of the world, “a teardrop on the face of eternity”, a symbol of ever-lasting love that reaches out from beyond the grave, the remnants of a broken heart, a broken man, a torn soul - is a mere 200 km from Delhi. How could I possibly not go? I took the train from Faridabad, Delhi to Agra. It was my first train journey in India - an experience that can be quite daunting if you're not used to it. I'm not used to it, so by the time I got there, I felt quite proud of myself for getting on the choo-choo all on me lonesome.
My ticket doesn't have a seat number (lesson number 1: always ask for a seat number when booking your ticket), but I am lucky enough not to get harassed by anyone for sitting on their seat. On the train I manage to jump up to the top tier section of the third-class compartment. Chunks of the bench where there are supposed to be wooden panels are missing so it's not exactly comfortable. I try various positions to prevent falling arse-first and crushing the head of the passenger sitting below me. Throughout the journey, I sit there with my book trying not to make eye contact with the two guys opposite who continue to stare at me relentlessly throughout the journey.
In fact it feels as if everyone on the train has been staring at me like I have two heads. Truth is, they don't quite know what to make of me. With my Asian complexion, I appear to be Indian yet to them, I appear with my Indian-style dress and jeans. Then they see I have a piece of metal sticking out of my bottom lip and my hair is sticking up in every which direction. Have decided to instigate a little experiment of my own by dressing as a 23 year-old Indian girl in salwar kameez minus piercings to see the difference in the way people percieve me (just call me bat-u-meez Nazreen). If this doesn't work, then I'm definitley making an impression on people simply because of the fact I am an Indian girl travelling on her own. Let's just wait and see what happens.
Throngs of people with their cloth knapsacks, suitcases, trunks, multi-coloured synthetic bags, metal boxes and plastic containers are ambling to jump onto the moving train, as those trying to alight persevere with defiance to keep their places at the exit doors. On the platform there are shoe shiners, ear cleaners, coolies, food stalls and men sitting like snake charmers over their smoking chulas churning out steaming hot food. The action is non-stop and it's all go, go, go as little chai men chase seated passengers through open windows, luring them with “Garam chai! Garam chai!”
Exposing the sheer diversity of people that pass through them, railway platforms here are like a window into the soul of India. Sitting on a bench with her husband, a woman in a bright orange sari is breastfeeding her child, her head and face covered, protecting her from the unwelcome gaze of other men. A group of women dressed in muslin saris worn the Rajasthani way, are waiting patiently for the train, their noses embedded in semi-precious stones. I spot a freshly married young couple. She peers at me shy and curious, holding the end of her chiffon duputta over her mouth. Her chooria* are stacked half way up both arms (*a special set of red bangles worn by women on their wedding day and which they continue to wear for some months after). The sindoor*, (*a scarlet red powder worn by married women) is sprinkled along the centre-parting of her hair and is another giveaway of her betrothed status. A man in an embroidered white Muslim kurta and braided topis* (toque) checks the time on his watch as a long-haired, bearded sadhu in saffron robes and a tilak* (*scarlet powder representing the third eye of knowledge) walks by.
There are also children begging, many of them with stumps instead of hands and feet, which have been mutilated by the rackets responsible for kidnapping them and putting them on the streets. A small girl about 7 years old with big lifeless eyes and a sullen expression approaches me. She has nothing on her feet. She appears to be one of the lucky ones with all her limbs still intact. I can't get to my money as I have it tied up in a pocket on the inside of my jeans, so I give her the stuffed chapatti with lime-pickle that my aunty had packed for me instead. I get on the train and discover more of these kids, I notice a small boy with amputated feet dragging himself on a plank with wheels through the aisle, challenging passengers for change. Accustomed as they are to witnessing the depths of such deprivation, most look away or continue reading their newspapers. I understand there are millions of cases like this and that you can't give out small change to every kid you see, but I can't ignore this one so I place a five rupee coin in the palm of his hand and a smile transforms his face.
I strike up a conversation with one of the passengers on the train. He's a government scientist and tells me, “the mobs are known to kidnap children from their parents in busy areas. They amputate their limbs so that they look like lepers because they think it will generate more sympathy, hence greater revenues. It also allows unprecedented levels of control over the children.” He tells me that “by night, “debt collectors” roam the streets, leaving the kids with a few rupees for whatever food they can get.”
Busker kids jump on and off the train with their makeshift drums and string instruments. They appear as ambassadors of India’s cultural diversity as there is a marked difference in the sounds and rhythms they play as the train passes through different areas. You can also spot differences between the dialects, accents and even physical features. The soul of India is transparent. I can see it in the myriad of peoples that I visibly encounter on this journey. There is a beauty radiating from their souls, the kids in particular. They have no fear. They are doing what they think they have been put on this earth to do, perhaps in accordance to the Hindu religion, to make up for the sins they had committed in a previous life. They can only hope that by suffering in this life, they will be incarnated into a better one in the next. Traditions are preserved in India, even amongst those suffering at the very depths of poverty. It feels ironic that I am making this pilgrimage to this place that is meant to symbolize love when those who I have encountered along the journey, are lacking exactly that.
My ticket doesn't have a seat number (lesson number 1: always ask for a seat number when booking your ticket), but I am lucky enough not to get harassed by anyone for sitting on their seat. On the train I manage to jump up to the top tier section of the third-class compartment. Chunks of the bench where there are supposed to be wooden panels are missing so it's not exactly comfortable. I try various positions to prevent falling arse-first and crushing the head of the passenger sitting below me. Throughout the journey, I sit there with my book trying not to make eye contact with the two guys opposite who continue to stare at me relentlessly throughout the journey.
In fact it feels as if everyone on the train has been staring at me like I have two heads. Truth is, they don't quite know what to make of me. With my Asian complexion, I appear to be Indian yet to them, I appear with my Indian-style dress and jeans. Then they see I have a piece of metal sticking out of my bottom lip and my hair is sticking up in every which direction. Have decided to instigate a little experiment of my own by dressing as a 23 year-old Indian girl in salwar kameez minus piercings to see the difference in the way people percieve me (just call me bat-u-meez Nazreen). If this doesn't work, then I'm definitley making an impression on people simply because of the fact I am an Indian girl travelling on her own. Let's just wait and see what happens.
Throngs of people with their cloth knapsacks, suitcases, trunks, multi-coloured synthetic bags, metal boxes and plastic containers are ambling to jump onto the moving train, as those trying to alight persevere with defiance to keep their places at the exit doors. On the platform there are shoe shiners, ear cleaners, coolies, food stalls and men sitting like snake charmers over their smoking chulas churning out steaming hot food. The action is non-stop and it's all go, go, go as little chai men chase seated passengers through open windows, luring them with “Garam chai! Garam chai!”
Exposing the sheer diversity of people that pass through them, railway platforms here are like a window into the soul of India. Sitting on a bench with her husband, a woman in a bright orange sari is breastfeeding her child, her head and face covered, protecting her from the unwelcome gaze of other men. A group of women dressed in muslin saris worn the Rajasthani way, are waiting patiently for the train, their noses embedded in semi-precious stones. I spot a freshly married young couple. She peers at me shy and curious, holding the end of her chiffon duputta over her mouth. Her chooria* are stacked half way up both arms (*a special set of red bangles worn by women on their wedding day and which they continue to wear for some months after). The sindoor*, (*a scarlet red powder worn by married women) is sprinkled along the centre-parting of her hair and is another giveaway of her betrothed status. A man in an embroidered white Muslim kurta and braided topis* (toque) checks the time on his watch as a long-haired, bearded sadhu in saffron robes and a tilak* (*scarlet powder representing the third eye of knowledge) walks by.
There are also children begging, many of them with stumps instead of hands and feet, which have been mutilated by the rackets responsible for kidnapping them and putting them on the streets. A small girl about 7 years old with big lifeless eyes and a sullen expression approaches me. She has nothing on her feet. She appears to be one of the lucky ones with all her limbs still intact. I can't get to my money as I have it tied up in a pocket on the inside of my jeans, so I give her the stuffed chapatti with lime-pickle that my aunty had packed for me instead. I get on the train and discover more of these kids, I notice a small boy with amputated feet dragging himself on a plank with wheels through the aisle, challenging passengers for change. Accustomed as they are to witnessing the depths of such deprivation, most look away or continue reading their newspapers. I understand there are millions of cases like this and that you can't give out small change to every kid you see, but I can't ignore this one so I place a five rupee coin in the palm of his hand and a smile transforms his face.
I strike up a conversation with one of the passengers on the train. He's a government scientist and tells me, “the mobs are known to kidnap children from their parents in busy areas. They amputate their limbs so that they look like lepers because they think it will generate more sympathy, hence greater revenues. It also allows unprecedented levels of control over the children.” He tells me that “by night, “debt collectors” roam the streets, leaving the kids with a few rupees for whatever food they can get.”
Busker kids jump on and off the train with their makeshift drums and string instruments. They appear as ambassadors of India’s cultural diversity as there is a marked difference in the sounds and rhythms they play as the train passes through different areas. You can also spot differences between the dialects, accents and even physical features. The soul of India is transparent. I can see it in the myriad of peoples that I visibly encounter on this journey. There is a beauty radiating from their souls, the kids in particular. They have no fear. They are doing what they think they have been put on this earth to do, perhaps in accordance to the Hindu religion, to make up for the sins they had committed in a previous life. They can only hope that by suffering in this life, they will be incarnated into a better one in the next. Traditions are preserved in India, even amongst those suffering at the very depths of poverty. It feels ironic that I am making this pilgrimage to this place that is meant to symbolize love when those who I have encountered along the journey, are lacking exactly that.
Monday, December 1, 2008
Namaste!
Da Eagle has landed!
Bye-bye England, hello India! Waiting in the wings for takeoff has fuelled my brain with enough ideas about what i want to do. So finally, I'm here, and one of the first things I would like to do is to find a good ashram. Imagine though, if you could take all the ashrams that exist in India and put them together? They would take up a fair chunk of the country – which is why I have no idea where to begin, and which is why I have decided it's better to just let the ashram come to me.
On the buses
Staying with my uncle in Delhi, Faridabad. This is base for a few weeks until I decide on plan of action. Faridabad is dusty to high hell. Take a bus journey through this city and you'll feel choked by the end of it, especially if you make the mistake of sitting next to the window. By the time you want to get off the bus, it's so ramssacked with people you practically find yourself slow-motion-swimming through a sea of bodies to get to the front, exhausted with claustrophobic palpatations and gasping for air. You also need to hold on to the nearest thing to stop yourself from flying through the front screen as the drivers have a habit of slamming the breaks at unexpected times.
Traffic
Think Indian traffic and think rickshaws, buses and cars trying to out-do each other as they dodge cows strolling in the wrong direction and avoid getting crushed by stacks of precariously balanced goods carted by donkeys and camels. Just a couple of years ago, charged by the EU for being “too loud” and breaking the so-called noise-pollution law, Spain was hit by an order demanding it “keep the noise down”. If EU officials consider Spain noisy, then they obviously haven't taken a white knuckle ride through a busy Delhi street on a rickshaw with the wind blowing through your hair and a cocktail of smells spanning sewers to samosas engulfing the nostrils as you inhale zillions of particles of dust and find yourself going deaf with incessant honking. Even if there is no need to beep, they still feel the need to. It's a traffic jungle out there and you have to beep-whack your way through all the chaos.
It's a crazy kind of chaos that most people will either love it or hate. I can positively confirm that within a matter of days, I've managed to hit the ground running and synchronize with India's chaotic way of everyday life. I think you need to have a sense of humour to appreciate the chaos in India because people here have a certain way of dealing with it, and that generally happens to be with a wide toothy smile. Found myself in a traffic jam the other day sitting in car with cousin and aunty. It was a very busy bazaar and the jam involved a two rickshaws, a cow, and three cars clogging up a narrow street junction. I noticed traffic jams are caused by people who refuse to move because they actually enjoy being a part of all the commotion, honking horns, hollering in jest and having a good old banter in the middle of it all. More and more people will come out onto the street to watch and you will notice how everyone is wearing this silly grin.
Holier than thou cows
They are absolutely everywhere. And certainly considered holier than thou, especially in the eyes of Indians because the cow is a Godly figure and can do no wrong, even in the middle of a busy road, where traffic will stop to let her holiness pass. Even when the cow has no intention of moving, cars and rickshaws will wait until she has decided it's time to move on.
So far, I've seen them strolling casually through the hectic bazaar, sleeping outside the outlet of an internet service provider, chilling out next to a street vendor selling fresh lime juice and as mentioned, walking about in the middle of busy roads, causing traffic jams. The cow is even known to walk into your office and chill out next to your desk. So when they say “holy cow”, it's a literal a reerence to the revered sacred status of the cow. In India, the cow is a godly figure, a representation of the cowherd led by Krishna, the God of Love. Krishna is famed for his love of butter, which came from the milk of the cows that he took care of. Like a mother, the cow is a provider, a giver of milk, her love is symbolized by the milk she gives and it's an unconditional love like that of a mother. The mother is respected as a Goddess in Hinduism, therefore, the cow, who is considered a symbol of motherhood, as giver of of milk, is also worshipped. In fact just this year, the value of the cow was given consideration on a scientific as well as spiritual level when South Africa hosted an event that discussed the medicinal value of cow dung and urine, and life as a vegetarian.
Cows, bazaars, buses and traffic jams, if I can get through this, then I think I'm gonna be okay here in India. The real test will be travelling long distance on trains and surviving for at least another six months, not to mention the diabolical level of poverty that I will inevitably see. I feel initiated into Indian life already and most definitley feel ready for an adventure! :-)
Bye-bye England, hello India! Waiting in the wings for takeoff has fuelled my brain with enough ideas about what i want to do. So finally, I'm here, and one of the first things I would like to do is to find a good ashram. Imagine though, if you could take all the ashrams that exist in India and put them together? They would take up a fair chunk of the country – which is why I have no idea where to begin, and which is why I have decided it's better to just let the ashram come to me.
On the buses
Staying with my uncle in Delhi, Faridabad. This is base for a few weeks until I decide on plan of action. Faridabad is dusty to high hell. Take a bus journey through this city and you'll feel choked by the end of it, especially if you make the mistake of sitting next to the window. By the time you want to get off the bus, it's so ramssacked with people you practically find yourself slow-motion-swimming through a sea of bodies to get to the front, exhausted with claustrophobic palpatations and gasping for air. You also need to hold on to the nearest thing to stop yourself from flying through the front screen as the drivers have a habit of slamming the breaks at unexpected times.
Traffic
Think Indian traffic and think rickshaws, buses and cars trying to out-do each other as they dodge cows strolling in the wrong direction and avoid getting crushed by stacks of precariously balanced goods carted by donkeys and camels. Just a couple of years ago, charged by the EU for being “too loud” and breaking the so-called noise-pollution law, Spain was hit by an order demanding it “keep the noise down”. If EU officials consider Spain noisy, then they obviously haven't taken a white knuckle ride through a busy Delhi street on a rickshaw with the wind blowing through your hair and a cocktail of smells spanning sewers to samosas engulfing the nostrils as you inhale zillions of particles of dust and find yourself going deaf with incessant honking. Even if there is no need to beep, they still feel the need to. It's a traffic jungle out there and you have to beep-whack your way through all the chaos.
It's a crazy kind of chaos that most people will either love it or hate. I can positively confirm that within a matter of days, I've managed to hit the ground running and synchronize with India's chaotic way of everyday life. I think you need to have a sense of humour to appreciate the chaos in India because people here have a certain way of dealing with it, and that generally happens to be with a wide toothy smile. Found myself in a traffic jam the other day sitting in car with cousin and aunty. It was a very busy bazaar and the jam involved a two rickshaws, a cow, and three cars clogging up a narrow street junction. I noticed traffic jams are caused by people who refuse to move because they actually enjoy being a part of all the commotion, honking horns, hollering in jest and having a good old banter in the middle of it all. More and more people will come out onto the street to watch and you will notice how everyone is wearing this silly grin.
Holier than thou cows
They are absolutely everywhere. And certainly considered holier than thou, especially in the eyes of Indians because the cow is a Godly figure and can do no wrong, even in the middle of a busy road, where traffic will stop to let her holiness pass. Even when the cow has no intention of moving, cars and rickshaws will wait until she has decided it's time to move on.
So far, I've seen them strolling casually through the hectic bazaar, sleeping outside the outlet of an internet service provider, chilling out next to a street vendor selling fresh lime juice and as mentioned, walking about in the middle of busy roads, causing traffic jams. The cow is even known to walk into your office and chill out next to your desk. So when they say “holy cow”, it's a literal a reerence to the revered sacred status of the cow. In India, the cow is a godly figure, a representation of the cowherd led by Krishna, the God of Love. Krishna is famed for his love of butter, which came from the milk of the cows that he took care of. Like a mother, the cow is a provider, a giver of milk, her love is symbolized by the milk she gives and it's an unconditional love like that of a mother. The mother is respected as a Goddess in Hinduism, therefore, the cow, who is considered a symbol of motherhood, as giver of of milk, is also worshipped. In fact just this year, the value of the cow was given consideration on a scientific as well as spiritual level when South Africa hosted an event that discussed the medicinal value of cow dung and urine, and life as a vegetarian.
Cows, bazaars, buses and traffic jams, if I can get through this, then I think I'm gonna be okay here in India. The real test will be travelling long distance on trains and surviving for at least another six months, not to mention the diabolical level of poverty that I will inevitably see. I feel initiated into Indian life already and most definitley feel ready for an adventure! :-)
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Getting grounded before take-off
The Brummie experience in a nutshell
When your mind’s all over the place, the best place is base. Which is why the brummie experience runs deeper than the accent, because Brum to me, is home. Going home not only helped exorcise a few demons, but also re-filled me with a renewed energy. It made me realise that when you are mentally and physically distressed, the best place to be is home as it’s where you get the best remedy: unconditional love.
Indian parents and curfews at the age of thirty-something
It's not always swings and roundabouts. My sister, Nish, hit the nail on the head the other week when she said the place would be a war zone if we lived in it permanently.
Parents evolve – whether they like it or not.
When we were 18 years old, curfew was 9pm. Little brother, 17, has it much easier. Comparison is the key word as those days are different to now. He plays at gigs and events all over the country, spends weekends in London, nights out on the town etc etc. But no, before you even think it, this has nothing to do with the fact that he is a boy. It simply comes down to the fact that my parents have finally evolved, whether they wanted to or not. There are four of us sisters, all of us older than my little bro. We all live away from home. For me, home, as they say, is where I lay my hat. The others are flung across three different countries and two continents. We each do our own thing. None of us are married. We’re all at that age where according to society, we probably “should have been by now”. Yet we lead fairly independent, creatively inspiring lives. So in comparison to most Asian kids that have grown up in the UK, we’ve got it pretty cushy. The parents are still expecting us to get hitched, but at least they’ve confirmed he doesn’t have to be Asian! See what I mean about how much they’ve evolved? I remember introducing my mum to an ex a good few years ago. I only did it (a) because she wouldn’t stop drop the subject and (b) I had drank a bottle of wine. I didn’t hear the end of it, but it did intrinsically mean I’d paved an easier path ahead for my siblings.
Indian parents in India – modern?
It makes me wonder how things are in India for so-called “modern young women”. There are contrasting opinions: My parents came to the UK some 40 years ago. You could say they’ve been trapped in some sort of time warp as they’ve held on with dear life to the very same values that they’d arrived with all those years ago. And if they have moved with the times, as my parents have in many ways, it’s taken them a while to do it. In the mean time, people in India have moved on and you will find they are a lot more modern, what with inter-caste and inter-race marriages on the rise and the acceptance of certain lifestyles.
India is big, so it does of course depend on the area in question, which is why I’ve also heard that when in India, in order to show a little self-dignity and respect, it’s wise to keep arms covered and not stay out after 10pm. From child marriages to rules that empower the men of the family, depending on region, there is still a wide grassroots level of acceptance of many traditions. My great uncle lives in rural Churu, Rajasthan. He has three daughter-in-laws. As tradition has always demanded, in his presence, they keep their faces covered. This is done by pulling over the face that part of the sari that covers the head, and using it as a veil. In Hindi, this is known as a “choond”. My grandfather, as in my uncle’s brother, went over recently. The young women presented themselves to him in the same way they do their father-in-law. But check this: Gramps wanted nothing to do with this age-old tradition and promptly instructed the girls to leave it out and uncover their heads because there really was no need to do a “choond” in front of him! Granddad is accustomed to living the western way of life for too long now and despite the fact he has always been a strict man of certain expectations, even he has managed to bend the rules and shun features of a tradition that he once would have considered normal.
Soho Road – the black-Asian Brixton of Birmingham
Handsworth. The Brixton of Birmingham. The Bronx of the Midlands. It’s “spot the white man” territory. Blacks and Asians reign in this bustling hustler part of Brum. Soho Road is the main street here. Most businesses owned by Indians of course, Soho road literally spills with gold jewellery shops and exquisite boutiques featuring out-of-this-world, hand-embroidered saris in lush materials in every single shade and tone of every single colour imaginable.
Soho road and Bhangra music
I’m no big of fan of Bhangra music, but I can tell you one thing about Soho Road: If you are familiar with it, then it doesn’t matter who you are, because if you are walking down this street, you can not avoid, no matter how hard you try, the lyrics of one particular song from entering your head. It goes something like, “Soho Road de oote tinu labadah pirah mein ni kunah vich munderah pa-ake!” (Get a better idea of song by checking: http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=5ffylB5uHdA). It roughly translates as, “With gold rings in my ears, I been cruising up and down Soho road looking just for you.”
Stop! I know! It sounds terrible! The context of the lyrics is of course different in Punjabi. Based on a certain sense of humour, it’s meant to be a funny song with a traditional folk-like feel that is mixed with lyrics that relate to a young Asian man living in the UK. Bhangra is funny though. I wouldn’t go out and buy it, but Indian weddings simply would NOT be the same without it. From 18 year-old college boys to 80 year old grannies, everybody but everybody is going wild on the dance floor and it’s so much fun! I should be going to an Indian wedding in India so I will be sure to post a video on this blog, just for you!
Samosas, Soho Road and the Bank of India
Just like the Spanish have been renowned for smoking in banks and supermarkets, Indians too have their own way of being. We went to Soho Road to visit the Bank of India. They were taking their time so we went out to Milans, the Indian sweet shop, to buy samosas. It was with great ease and comfort that the three of us returned with our steaming samosas to the Bank of India. We sat on three rather comfortable chairs and polished them off in between a good old chinwag. You could never do this in Natwest or Barcalays. Can you imagine the bemused look of other clients and the reaction of some snooty bank manager?
Spindian: The Indian-Spanish connection
It’s at times like this I see similarities between Indian and Spanish cultures: Both have a problem with timing (it is not uncommon for Indian wedding cards to literally lie about the time of the wedding reception, often giving a two-hour window at the least. This way everybody turns up on time). Both cultures are carefree (Spain ignored the smoking law); there is a similarity in priorities in life (family, fiesta, siesta) and finally, even the music is similar (it is no secret that Indian gypsies played a potent role in the development of flamenco). You can hear the similarities. This inter-cultural connection is also visibly evident when you compare the foot movements of the Indian Katak and flamenco dances. My friend David defined the differences between these two very connected dances. He said while a spiritual force ignites the dance of Indian katak, an expression that is driven by the soul drives that of flamenco.
Indian soaps
I confess. I have been watching terrible, cheese-infested Indian soaps. But it’s only because I’m going to India! It makes my mum extremely happy though and we love to get excited about this one particularly silly and mundane soap opera which has as much depth as a can of baked beans. Will the telephone lovers discover the true identity of each other? Will the wicked mother of the boy get in the way of their love? Will the boy still find her attractive once he discovers the sweet voice on the telephone belongs to a girl with a dark complexion? Can you believe it? On Thursday night they had the audacity to broadcast a repeat of Wednesday and I leave Birmingham for London to catch flight to Delhi on Monday, which means I won’t get to see what happens! Oh no!
London – the good times
An Intimate and sentimental catch-up with friends became pivotal to my London trip. I’d known most of them for years before I’d even left for Spain, which means we were babies back then. Since that time, most of us have been through the mill in life, tackled the most seemingly impossible of situations, found solutions to the darkest problems and discovered new leases of life with our careers, aspirations and goals for the future. So to see how far we’ve all come is enlightening, and as my friend Fiona would say, it kinda makes you feel “all growed up.”
If London was a man…
If London were a man, he would be very happy man indeed upon hearing the words: “your only good for one thing” – because to me, that’s what London is, and that one thing happens to be partying. Personally, I see London as more of a woman. She just wears way too much dazzle to be a man, unless she was a transvestite of course. And because of this dazzle, there’s no other city that could possibly match up to the character of the London party scene. So as well as the sentimental catch-up with friends, this was also a chance for me and my undisputed partner in crime, Nicola, to have one last boogie at the legendary Shpongle Halloween After Party.
Just call it “that London thang”…
But please. We are not talking about those so-called ‘exclusive” events in swanky venues where sleazy MPs sip Dom Perignon while their aloof super-models mistresses raid the toilets to burn their columellas (bit between nostrils) with cocaine. What we’re talking about here is another kind of dirty. Scratch the surface of the underground and that’s where it’s at in London. Alternative, freaky, geeky, friendly, funky, wild, fun, intelligent, stimulating, creative, cultural, loving – London possesses a reflective cosmic energy that penetrates an inter-connectiveness between people. It’s as if the tubes of the underground are its veins and the people racing through those veins, are its blood, energy, power - connected and unified through want of awareness, knowledge, enlightenment, creativity. London is like a lover that just takes you and does all these naughty but nice things to you over and over again. It’s like a seduction, but to me and to you and to anyone who knows this place, it’s just “that London thang”.
Vampire Pixies from outer space
One fang, pixie ears, a third eye and glow in the dark make-up – sometimes you don’t even need to buy an outfit, all you need to do is accessorise, et voila, you have vampire pixie in mid-transformation from outer space. That was me at Shpongle party. Nicola went as evil reptile. Can you see the green dots on her temples? She could never look evil though as Nic’s way too beautiful for that, although she definitely looks a little spacey! The party was reminiscent of the old days when we’d speed through the underground to get to events related to many of the artists that were performing at Shpongle tonight. So as you can imagine, we felt pretty much at home in our medieval future world amidst fellow species from across the galaxy. Full-on and positively freaky, infectious and spinning furiously with an intimate, pulsating energy. Just the way we like it.
Getting grounded
If London is good for all things mentioned above, then Brum is good for food because there’s nothing in this world that could possibly beat my mum’s cooking. It has given me the mental and physical strength I need to continue along my journey. I feel healthy again, both mentally and physically. Sometimes, what you are looking for can be found right under your nose. I’m seeking some sort of connectivity with my inner self and the cosmic universe and I have it in mind that I will discover this in India. I’m still in the UK. I’m at my parents’ place and I’m already beginning to feel a sense of awareness and connectivity both with myself and with others, and what’s more, I’ve loved being at home this time. I don’t think I gave home the chance it deserved before, but I feel like I am doing that now. That’s what I mean about searching for something. Maybe sometimes you don’t really need to travel to the other side of the planet to find inner peace, when all along it’s sitting there right under your very own nose. Fear not though, I will still be leaving the country. In two days to be precise!
Feeling grounded (for now…)
Can you believe it? I haven't smoked since 3rd November! Well, tell a lie, I smoked a whole packet of 10 when I went out on the lash last weekend, but that doesn’t count because we were socializing. I am so dying for a fag sometimes, although “sometimes” is the operative word here. I can continue this way and stay off them. Or - I can feel the freedom and buy a packet the minute I leave Brum. But is it really freedom? To smoke is to be dependent on something, so how can that be freedom? Freedom is to be independent and to be able to live without. I'm going to experiment and see how long I can continue without smoking. It could help me give up completely. Thing is, I feel at peace with myself at home and despite the odd occasion where I’m gagging to light up, soon enough, I'm distracted and forget about it. The big bad world will put me to the real test.
Visa
Managed to get lots of things sorted. Been scurrying around Brum with mum and getting last minute things crossed off endless to-do list despite feeling weak with flu most of time. I think flu kicked off because I slammed breaks on my chaotic life rather abruptly. I also opted for getting India injections at height of evil fever, so as you can imagine, I’ve been miserable wreck and sensitive heap for best part of two weeks. Almost recovered now. Even managed to sort out visa.
Six months!
Can you believe it? Said Visa granted for mere six months. I am a person of Indian origin and a woman of substance! Come on! On the up side, I can apply for a lifetime visa when I get back. However, the downside for the now is the fact it only takes me up until May next year and the Kalachakra Initiation Ceremony takes place in June. They’ll have to hunt me down before escorting me out the country if they fail to grant me an extension for an extra month or two.
Granada – Malaga – Barcelona – London – Birmingham - Delhi
Considering the journey I’ve been on so far, it did take a good few days to settle back into Brum life. As well as the stark contrast to London, there have also been plenty of unavoidable comparisons to Spain. There’s this freaky looking lamppost outside my window. It reflects a bright light into my bedroom and casts an orange shadow of the window across the wall next to my bed every single morning because it’s so freaking dark. Instead of open bright blue sunny skies, I can see orange drizzle outside and as it gets lighter, everything is a dull grey-green-brown and all I can hear is the traffic outside.
Back in the Alpujarras, it was howling dogs and bitches on heat and other animals honking, bleating, tweeting, clucking and humping across the valley. By the crack of dawn, the dogs would be awoken from sleep by the cocks. I’d be up too, nursing a coffee and looking out across a stunning mountain range from my mammoth-sized roof top terrace. If I'd be up early enough, I’d catch the sunrise, and the warm colours of an open sky, the silhouetted mountains and the rising sun. It made for an inspiring day indeed. Realised that it doesn’t matter where you are because you can be inspired wherever you are. Like right now for example. I’m happy in my environment and so the inspiration comes from within as I sit in my pyjamas typing this text.
The plan???
My genetic make-up still refuses to register the word “plan” – even at this last minute. Could be something to do with my, er, genetic makeup. I still have no concrete plan because I just don’t know how things will unfold when I get out there. So once again, the plan is, there is no plan. So despite no plan, I feel ready for India, yet the question is this: Is India ready for me? Guess you'll just have to watch this space...
When your mind’s all over the place, the best place is base. Which is why the brummie experience runs deeper than the accent, because Brum to me, is home. Going home not only helped exorcise a few demons, but also re-filled me with a renewed energy. It made me realise that when you are mentally and physically distressed, the best place to be is home as it’s where you get the best remedy: unconditional love.
Indian parents and curfews at the age of thirty-something
It's not always swings and roundabouts. My sister, Nish, hit the nail on the head the other week when she said the place would be a war zone if we lived in it permanently.
Parents evolve – whether they like it or not.
When we were 18 years old, curfew was 9pm. Little brother, 17, has it much easier. Comparison is the key word as those days are different to now. He plays at gigs and events all over the country, spends weekends in London, nights out on the town etc etc. But no, before you even think it, this has nothing to do with the fact that he is a boy. It simply comes down to the fact that my parents have finally evolved, whether they wanted to or not. There are four of us sisters, all of us older than my little bro. We all live away from home. For me, home, as they say, is where I lay my hat. The others are flung across three different countries and two continents. We each do our own thing. None of us are married. We’re all at that age where according to society, we probably “should have been by now”. Yet we lead fairly independent, creatively inspiring lives. So in comparison to most Asian kids that have grown up in the UK, we’ve got it pretty cushy. The parents are still expecting us to get hitched, but at least they’ve confirmed he doesn’t have to be Asian! See what I mean about how much they’ve evolved? I remember introducing my mum to an ex a good few years ago. I only did it (a) because she wouldn’t stop drop the subject and (b) I had drank a bottle of wine. I didn’t hear the end of it, but it did intrinsically mean I’d paved an easier path ahead for my siblings.
Indian parents in India – modern?
It makes me wonder how things are in India for so-called “modern young women”. There are contrasting opinions: My parents came to the UK some 40 years ago. You could say they’ve been trapped in some sort of time warp as they’ve held on with dear life to the very same values that they’d arrived with all those years ago. And if they have moved with the times, as my parents have in many ways, it’s taken them a while to do it. In the mean time, people in India have moved on and you will find they are a lot more modern, what with inter-caste and inter-race marriages on the rise and the acceptance of certain lifestyles.
India is big, so it does of course depend on the area in question, which is why I’ve also heard that when in India, in order to show a little self-dignity and respect, it’s wise to keep arms covered and not stay out after 10pm. From child marriages to rules that empower the men of the family, depending on region, there is still a wide grassroots level of acceptance of many traditions. My great uncle lives in rural Churu, Rajasthan. He has three daughter-in-laws. As tradition has always demanded, in his presence, they keep their faces covered. This is done by pulling over the face that part of the sari that covers the head, and using it as a veil. In Hindi, this is known as a “choond”. My grandfather, as in my uncle’s brother, went over recently. The young women presented themselves to him in the same way they do their father-in-law. But check this: Gramps wanted nothing to do with this age-old tradition and promptly instructed the girls to leave it out and uncover their heads because there really was no need to do a “choond” in front of him! Granddad is accustomed to living the western way of life for too long now and despite the fact he has always been a strict man of certain expectations, even he has managed to bend the rules and shun features of a tradition that he once would have considered normal.
Soho Road – the black-Asian Brixton of Birmingham
Handsworth. The Brixton of Birmingham. The Bronx of the Midlands. It’s “spot the white man” territory. Blacks and Asians reign in this bustling hustler part of Brum. Soho Road is the main street here. Most businesses owned by Indians of course, Soho road literally spills with gold jewellery shops and exquisite boutiques featuring out-of-this-world, hand-embroidered saris in lush materials in every single shade and tone of every single colour imaginable.
Soho road and Bhangra music
I’m no big of fan of Bhangra music, but I can tell you one thing about Soho Road: If you are familiar with it, then it doesn’t matter who you are, because if you are walking down this street, you can not avoid, no matter how hard you try, the lyrics of one particular song from entering your head. It goes something like, “Soho Road de oote tinu labadah pirah mein ni kunah vich munderah pa-ake!” (Get a better idea of song by checking: http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=5ffylB5uHdA). It roughly translates as, “With gold rings in my ears, I been cruising up and down Soho road looking just for you.”
Stop! I know! It sounds terrible! The context of the lyrics is of course different in Punjabi. Based on a certain sense of humour, it’s meant to be a funny song with a traditional folk-like feel that is mixed with lyrics that relate to a young Asian man living in the UK. Bhangra is funny though. I wouldn’t go out and buy it, but Indian weddings simply would NOT be the same without it. From 18 year-old college boys to 80 year old grannies, everybody but everybody is going wild on the dance floor and it’s so much fun! I should be going to an Indian wedding in India so I will be sure to post a video on this blog, just for you!
Samosas, Soho Road and the Bank of India
Just like the Spanish have been renowned for smoking in banks and supermarkets, Indians too have their own way of being. We went to Soho Road to visit the Bank of India. They were taking their time so we went out to Milans, the Indian sweet shop, to buy samosas. It was with great ease and comfort that the three of us returned with our steaming samosas to the Bank of India. We sat on three rather comfortable chairs and polished them off in between a good old chinwag. You could never do this in Natwest or Barcalays. Can you imagine the bemused look of other clients and the reaction of some snooty bank manager?
Spindian: The Indian-Spanish connection
It’s at times like this I see similarities between Indian and Spanish cultures: Both have a problem with timing (it is not uncommon for Indian wedding cards to literally lie about the time of the wedding reception, often giving a two-hour window at the least. This way everybody turns up on time). Both cultures are carefree (Spain ignored the smoking law); there is a similarity in priorities in life (family, fiesta, siesta) and finally, even the music is similar (it is no secret that Indian gypsies played a potent role in the development of flamenco). You can hear the similarities. This inter-cultural connection is also visibly evident when you compare the foot movements of the Indian Katak and flamenco dances. My friend David defined the differences between these two very connected dances. He said while a spiritual force ignites the dance of Indian katak, an expression that is driven by the soul drives that of flamenco.
Indian soaps
I confess. I have been watching terrible, cheese-infested Indian soaps. But it’s only because I’m going to India! It makes my mum extremely happy though and we love to get excited about this one particularly silly and mundane soap opera which has as much depth as a can of baked beans. Will the telephone lovers discover the true identity of each other? Will the wicked mother of the boy get in the way of their love? Will the boy still find her attractive once he discovers the sweet voice on the telephone belongs to a girl with a dark complexion? Can you believe it? On Thursday night they had the audacity to broadcast a repeat of Wednesday and I leave Birmingham for London to catch flight to Delhi on Monday, which means I won’t get to see what happens! Oh no!
London – the good times
An Intimate and sentimental catch-up with friends became pivotal to my London trip. I’d known most of them for years before I’d even left for Spain, which means we were babies back then. Since that time, most of us have been through the mill in life, tackled the most seemingly impossible of situations, found solutions to the darkest problems and discovered new leases of life with our careers, aspirations and goals for the future. So to see how far we’ve all come is enlightening, and as my friend Fiona would say, it kinda makes you feel “all growed up.”
If London was a man…
If London were a man, he would be very happy man indeed upon hearing the words: “your only good for one thing” – because to me, that’s what London is, and that one thing happens to be partying. Personally, I see London as more of a woman. She just wears way too much dazzle to be a man, unless she was a transvestite of course. And because of this dazzle, there’s no other city that could possibly match up to the character of the London party scene. So as well as the sentimental catch-up with friends, this was also a chance for me and my undisputed partner in crime, Nicola, to have one last boogie at the legendary Shpongle Halloween After Party.
Just call it “that London thang”…
But please. We are not talking about those so-called ‘exclusive” events in swanky venues where sleazy MPs sip Dom Perignon while their aloof super-models mistresses raid the toilets to burn their columellas (bit between nostrils) with cocaine. What we’re talking about here is another kind of dirty. Scratch the surface of the underground and that’s where it’s at in London. Alternative, freaky, geeky, friendly, funky, wild, fun, intelligent, stimulating, creative, cultural, loving – London possesses a reflective cosmic energy that penetrates an inter-connectiveness between people. It’s as if the tubes of the underground are its veins and the people racing through those veins, are its blood, energy, power - connected and unified through want of awareness, knowledge, enlightenment, creativity. London is like a lover that just takes you and does all these naughty but nice things to you over and over again. It’s like a seduction, but to me and to you and to anyone who knows this place, it’s just “that London thang”.
Vampire Pixies from outer space
One fang, pixie ears, a third eye and glow in the dark make-up – sometimes you don’t even need to buy an outfit, all you need to do is accessorise, et voila, you have vampire pixie in mid-transformation from outer space. That was me at Shpongle party. Nicola went as evil reptile. Can you see the green dots on her temples? She could never look evil though as Nic’s way too beautiful for that, although she definitely looks a little spacey! The party was reminiscent of the old days when we’d speed through the underground to get to events related to many of the artists that were performing at Shpongle tonight. So as you can imagine, we felt pretty much at home in our medieval future world amidst fellow species from across the galaxy. Full-on and positively freaky, infectious and spinning furiously with an intimate, pulsating energy. Just the way we like it.
Getting grounded
If London is good for all things mentioned above, then Brum is good for food because there’s nothing in this world that could possibly beat my mum’s cooking. It has given me the mental and physical strength I need to continue along my journey. I feel healthy again, both mentally and physically. Sometimes, what you are looking for can be found right under your nose. I’m seeking some sort of connectivity with my inner self and the cosmic universe and I have it in mind that I will discover this in India. I’m still in the UK. I’m at my parents’ place and I’m already beginning to feel a sense of awareness and connectivity both with myself and with others, and what’s more, I’ve loved being at home this time. I don’t think I gave home the chance it deserved before, but I feel like I am doing that now. That’s what I mean about searching for something. Maybe sometimes you don’t really need to travel to the other side of the planet to find inner peace, when all along it’s sitting there right under your very own nose. Fear not though, I will still be leaving the country. In two days to be precise!
Feeling grounded (for now…)
Can you believe it? I haven't smoked since 3rd November! Well, tell a lie, I smoked a whole packet of 10 when I went out on the lash last weekend, but that doesn’t count because we were socializing. I am so dying for a fag sometimes, although “sometimes” is the operative word here. I can continue this way and stay off them. Or - I can feel the freedom and buy a packet the minute I leave Brum. But is it really freedom? To smoke is to be dependent on something, so how can that be freedom? Freedom is to be independent and to be able to live without. I'm going to experiment and see how long I can continue without smoking. It could help me give up completely. Thing is, I feel at peace with myself at home and despite the odd occasion where I’m gagging to light up, soon enough, I'm distracted and forget about it. The big bad world will put me to the real test.
Visa
Managed to get lots of things sorted. Been scurrying around Brum with mum and getting last minute things crossed off endless to-do list despite feeling weak with flu most of time. I think flu kicked off because I slammed breaks on my chaotic life rather abruptly. I also opted for getting India injections at height of evil fever, so as you can imagine, I’ve been miserable wreck and sensitive heap for best part of two weeks. Almost recovered now. Even managed to sort out visa.
Six months!
Can you believe it? Said Visa granted for mere six months. I am a person of Indian origin and a woman of substance! Come on! On the up side, I can apply for a lifetime visa when I get back. However, the downside for the now is the fact it only takes me up until May next year and the Kalachakra Initiation Ceremony takes place in June. They’ll have to hunt me down before escorting me out the country if they fail to grant me an extension for an extra month or two.
Granada – Malaga – Barcelona – London – Birmingham - Delhi
Considering the journey I’ve been on so far, it did take a good few days to settle back into Brum life. As well as the stark contrast to London, there have also been plenty of unavoidable comparisons to Spain. There’s this freaky looking lamppost outside my window. It reflects a bright light into my bedroom and casts an orange shadow of the window across the wall next to my bed every single morning because it’s so freaking dark. Instead of open bright blue sunny skies, I can see orange drizzle outside and as it gets lighter, everything is a dull grey-green-brown and all I can hear is the traffic outside.
Back in the Alpujarras, it was howling dogs and bitches on heat and other animals honking, bleating, tweeting, clucking and humping across the valley. By the crack of dawn, the dogs would be awoken from sleep by the cocks. I’d be up too, nursing a coffee and looking out across a stunning mountain range from my mammoth-sized roof top terrace. If I'd be up early enough, I’d catch the sunrise, and the warm colours of an open sky, the silhouetted mountains and the rising sun. It made for an inspiring day indeed. Realised that it doesn’t matter where you are because you can be inspired wherever you are. Like right now for example. I’m happy in my environment and so the inspiration comes from within as I sit in my pyjamas typing this text.
The plan???
My genetic make-up still refuses to register the word “plan” – even at this last minute. Could be something to do with my, er, genetic makeup. I still have no concrete plan because I just don’t know how things will unfold when I get out there. So once again, the plan is, there is no plan. So despite no plan, I feel ready for India, yet the question is this: Is India ready for me? Guess you'll just have to watch this space...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)