The Last Day of this city (Until I come back in May of course)

So, this is our last day. It is finished. I handed in my last paper. I made it perfectly clear in cool and calm tones that my exchange program was over. All I need is for them to hand in my marks. And that can be done over email. I have cleared my room. I have a bag full of stuff for the Didi with a daughter who is 'just you size Di!' I have fobbed my caffetier on to Nandini. We have arranged a farewell luncheon. Soon I will get my deposit back. I will have put all my crap in the bin or somewhere equally able to take it out of sight and out of mind. I am actually GOING.

Tonight we take the train from Delhi to Lucknow, arriving at some unholy hour of the morning in a new, and apparently hotter, city. Lucknow: the scene of the siege of the Residency and the battle for Awadh (Oudh), the relief led by Colin Campbell of the Highlanders (I think). I have studied it intensely anyway. It is called the Golden City, or the Constantinople of the East. I will update while there.

I don't really know about how I feel about leaving Delhi. This is the last time I will see many of the friends I made here. There are a few that I believe I am going to see again at some point in the future. But for the most part, I wouldn't bet on it. And then there are the people who have just been a part of my life. Made it a little bit simpler. Minaxi ma'am hitting me on the back when I have forgotten to sign and her infectious bubbling laugh. The Didis outside our room, laughing with each other and at us. The professors we have come to respect. The man in the History Dept canteen who laughs at us when we come for tchai. The tailor on Bangalo Road who always says hello whether or not you have something for him. The men in Barista who know our names. AIM cafe - our haven, our oasis of calm in a dust storm. The Koreans laughing at us every time we order anything Korean, always taking an active interest in our lives and giving us free tea when we are sick. 

And then my friends. Egle, our crazy Lithuanian who cannot accept her own successes as successes and who has the right consciousness to work for a better and fairer world. I may see her again - she wants to work in the UK. Ste, the lovely Swiss girl with such long blonde hair, I will see again in the North East. She can wait. Stephanie, Samuel, Gulshan, Guillame and Brunelle - the Frenchies. Will I see them again? Who knows. I hope so. Sam and Guillame's dancing will be burned into my memory forever. Paris looks a lot closer to the UK when you are in India. Then the Dutch, who I  will see again, who are traveling with us. They don't need to be thought about yet. There is Wouter and Lorriane: two very lovely people, very active, Wouter with all the precision of a military man and Lorriane with turquoise harem pants to match her eye shadow, both obsessed with children's toys especially the squeaky kind. Sansanee our mad and adorable Thai friend, who is probably going to drop out of University again and go off to live with monks or have a baby and name it Galaxy. Rachna, the shrieking Mauritian. Mehrnoush who oozes womanhood in a way we can only ever dream to do. Elham who has painted me. If I ever go to Iran, it is going to be for them. Elmira, one of the most driven young women I have ever met, the poet and sweet heart. Karima, my next door neighbor, who opens the door every morning and evening to hear the prayer call come over the buildings. Saloni, sweet and fresh and very much up for a laugh. She too has the activism to change her situation and that of other's around her. And she can salsa. Nitin, the chauvinist English student who is so obviously going to be a professor it hurts. Tanveer, who is going on her first flight to Paris soon. I hope it takes her further. I have managed to have some of my most interesting conversations here with her. I am so glad to have found someone as like minded as me. She gave me a book as a farewell gift on gender poetry. Nandini, I will see again. Next summer, in fact. And she will be here in Delhi when I get back. Her good bye can wait just a little longer. Anjalika, one of the most enviable women in this place, with perfect hair and skin and face and a brilliant laugh. She laughs at everything, even the things that are not funny.

ah. What will be will be. 

I had an incredibly odd evening on Sunday.

I went with my friend Elmira to LAP at the Hotel Samrat, an exclusive members-only night club/lounge bar that is owned by some Bollywood star. We went on the invitation of the corporation Elmira is having her internship with this summer. I was slightly confused as to why we, completely unimportant students, were being invited to some corporate big-wig night. I did have the thought that maybe it had something to do with us being firmly within the 'young and female' category...Elmira had assured me however that it was all very much above board and they were giving us free alcohol and transport anyways. I am always up for trying new things, and seeing as I will probably never have the chance to go to one of these things again, I thought it could do no harm.

LAP is not what I expected. You would think such an exclusive and hyped place would be buzzing, or at least, incredibly opulent and jaw-dropping when you walk in. Instead it was mediocre decor, not much ambience what so ever and some absolutely terrible lighting. You could barely see two feet in front of you, which was maybe a good thing, as when you squinted through the gloom you got a look at some of the 'high points' of the decoration. These included a brown-grey chandelier and some mock-Victorian Raj style paintings of some quite ugly women. Unfortunate. The bar tenders knew more than your average however and could mix a very good mojito I quickly found out. The drink was free, so every time you finished one they brought another to you before your empty glass had hit the table. Can't fault the service on that front. I didn't eat any of the food on offer, though Elmira said it was lovely. I really should have eaten the food, as I hadn't had dinner (idiocy) and proceeded to drink a LOT. More on the effects of that one later.

Aside from the slightly disappointing setting, the most interesting thing about the night was the company. Men old enough to be my father (or older in fact) in IPL cricket shirts schmoozing away with each other. All were Danish or Scandinavian, most based in Singapore, all very rich and all very intelligent. I found one who was half British and spent the evening mostly chatting to him about home and life in India. I found it all very odd. All these middle aged men making small talk with Elmira and I and a few other pieces of far posher Indian totty scattered throughout the room. Two of the Indian girls I managed to chat to were air hostesses. Is it just me, or is that horrifyingly inevitable? Possibly it was all in the name of corporate big-wigging, but I did feel like I was probably only there to provide a polite foil to some drunk Danish's posturing and some eye candy. I think the greatest moment came when one of the men was telling me about he had taken up skiing at 37 (he was no longer 37, most definately the past tense) and then asked me if I liked skiing and I said I was able to ski and had learned a few years ago. This led to a "Ahhh when you are young I am sure it is easier" which in turn brought on a "And how old are you? You are a student, yes?" My triumphant "Actually, I am only twenty. PRACTICALLY A CHILD (you lech)" made me smile and them raise their eyebrows so high they nearly disappeared into their receding hairlines and quickly excuse themselves. Most satisfying.

The cab ride home was what did it for my stomach. I had had four glasses of white wine and two mojitos, no food since lunch and more disheartened leches than I could handle in one night. Was quite, quite sick. Yummy. First time I have been sick from alcohol in quite some time. it meant I didn't have a hangover the next day though, which was just as well, because if I had done I wouldn't have been able to start my essay at all. 

Said essay is still occupying my time and becoming more and more urgent every day. Gah.

On a different note:

On Saturday I will leave Delhi. It is, just about, over. I am going to be travelling, but you know...no more Delhi for a month. It hasn't really sunk in yet.

Ciao.

x

Emma's visit in slightly more detail than the bugger all I have already given...

I can finally get around to telling you all about Emma's wonderful visit. 

Out of all my friends who proclaimed they would be following me out to India, Emma was the only one who actually didn't spend all her money on something else. Evidently the lure of my company and the myriad of shiny things was just too much to pass up on. She was only here for ten days, which really isn't enough time, but then I am realising that ten months really isn't enough time to see everything, never mind little over a week.

The trip consisted of:

1. [To be said with a loud and obnoxious posh English accent, over and over again. Repeat at top of voice in the presence of English students on their Gap Yah for added effect and thus added hilarity] "This one time I was Literaaaally in Buuurma...and I just CHUNDERED all oover a monk! Yeah I know, I know...out on the laaash the night before...Best night of my LIFE!" (We modified it for the Dharamsala high-monk contingent). Hilarity. Particularly as Dharamsala had not too few Gap Yahs. 

2. Went to Agra for the fourth time. Spent a disproportionate amount of that time in Costa coffee trying to cool selves down. Emma agrees: Agra is not somewhere to go to twice if you can help it, let alone four times. At least I am damned sure I will never ever go back there.

3. Dharamsala was amazing! It was very Alpine and the hills had red rhododendron bushes on them and the houses were built into the hill sides. There were little prayer flags everywhere and then the huge gold brass prayer wheels and the multi-coloured houses. It was very peaceful, very clean and very enjoyable. I bought a lot of stuff, including a fairly ridiculous Kashmiri embroidered and fringed hippy handbag that I am sort of proud of. Lauren and Emma went all out and bought Kashmiri hand-embroidered scarves - most posh. There was a lot of Buddhist regalia, including a lot of life size photographs of the Dalai Lama and Obama. I almost felt like nicking one to bring it home for Frances. Unfortunately His Holiness was not in residence at that point so, quel suprise, we couldn't turn up at his door step. We did wander round the temple complex that he lives in however. There were a couple of white guys carrying out ritualised prostrations in front of one of the temples. Lauren went on a rant about how Buddhism is a rejection of ritual. She knows a lot about it, and I don't, so I won't try and replicate what she said exactly here as I will get it wrong. Either way: ritual has no base in Buddhism. One night we managed to completely freak out a man in a wool shop by trying on all his hats, making ridiculous comments about the wool animals, and generally by giggling insanely at every single little thing we or he did. In the end he was giggling as well and he became our new best friend. He seemed a bit drunk and it was maybe just as well; three giggling and hyper white girls in a woolen goods store is never easy to deal with without some Dutch courage. The Tibetan refugee museum was very good as well actually. It is very interactive, with a lot of photography and relics from Tibet brought by the refugees now living in Dharamsala. The whole town was full of refugee rehabilitation programs, like tailors or coffee places run by them. Some of the refugee stories were absolutely terrible. Many walked over the Himalayas to come to Dharamsala or somewhere similar. Imagine walking in all that snow for days on end with no equipment. Think of the frost bite if nothing else. There were bloodied shirts the prisoners wore in the Chinese prisons. All very educational, enlightening, and highly depressing. But you got the impression that they knew that people needed to be educated about the whole thing, not just yell 'Free Tibet' because it is a popular thing to say.

I am very glad we went. I wish we had stayed longer.

4. Emma managed to stay well until the last night of her trip. Apparently her mother declared she had dissentry and then that she had Dengue Fever. Interesting. I think, from my own experiences of having had said illness many many times in the past eight months, that it was good old fashioned, top-grade Delhi Belly. Most unfortunate, but definitely not life-threatening with the twin elixirs of Ciproxin and Coca Cola to immediate hand. Got to love Christine's worry for her. Evidently India is a killer. It was very unfortunate though coming back to the all too familiar sight of Emma lying on the bathroom cubicle floor being sick into a bucket. I felt for her. I knew her pain. I doubt that helped any, but at least I was aware of what she was going through as it were. She also managed to pick up a drive-by grope that night (in Muckherjee Nagar of all places where usually there are very few problems with the men...) which was incredibly unlucky and probably didn't help the stomach trouble any. Men on motorbikes are bastards and never ever to be trusted. Not a good evening in many respects.

I highly enjoyed her being here. I wish she had stayed longer and that we could have travelled more. However it is possibly best she didn't, not just due to the illness, but also because she would have run out of money. Oh, the shiny things...:D "Chundered" is our new phrase-du-jour. It never stops being funny, ever. If anyone reading this hasn't yet seen the genius of the Gap yah video: 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eKFjWR7X5dU

Welcome to a small piece of my life in India. We get a lot of these.

A Diversion

Ok. So I know I need to post up on Emma's visit. And I will. Tomorrow. In the mean time, I have a diversion.

My friend from Lithuania has had various panic attacks for the past week. Her degree is coming to an end, she has to write her final paper, she will be leaving her boyfriend to start life away from here, and she is unsure as to what she will be able to do with herself next year. On top of this, she has decided she hasn't 'used' her time in India properly.

 The situation in India for an awful lot of people is not wonderful. You only need to look out of my window and notice the half-dead donkey carrying bricks over to a woman in her torn up saree with her semi-naked child scrabbling around the building site in the dirt in the 38 degree heat to see that. And she is possibly one of the lucky few - she has a job. Her child is alive. There is a donkey carrying bricks rather than her doing it herself. She is earning money. She has clothing. Her child is with her. 

My friend has decided that she should have used her time in India to do NGO and charitable work. She feels that she has wasted her time by not trying to engage in some social uplift program to help some of the less fortunate people in Delhi. She thinks that it would all have been of far more use to have gone and volunteered in an orphanage entertaining the kids or teaching English. She says she feels guilty about coming here and not doing something like that. Guilty about studying, living as she does, in the environment she does...guilty about not having 'done something' with her time. Her anxiety over this has made us feel it too. Why didn't we DO something? 

I have an issue with this attitude. She didn't come here to work as part of an NGO or mission. She came here to complete her degree in Indology. She came here to study Hindi, Sanskrit and Sociology. She came here to be a student.

Whenever my friend talks of her home in Lithuania it isn't ever very positive. She describes the situation as fairly dire for her countrymen and women, especially in the terms of earning money or getting a job. She completely supports their leaving to go to the UK or America or wherever else to get a job, as there is just nothing at home for them. As far as we can tell from her description, Lithuania is also ugly, boring and devoid of any attractive prospect whatsoever. Even the housing is terrible. But my friend doesn't seem to see this bad situation in the same way as she sees the situation in India. India is somewhere she feels she should make a difference because she 'can'. But Lithuania, despite all the problems with her home, can be happily abandoned because she feels she can do nothing. She doesn't want to work for any social uplift organisations in Lithuania. She wants to leave as fast as possible. She doesn't even want to try and work there. She says she will go an waitress in the UK (with a full undergraduate degree mind) rather than try to work in her chosen field in Lithuania.

The poverty of India has had an affect on her, yet she doesn't seem to acknowledge that there is poverty in Lithuania that also demands the attention of compassionate people such as herself. Also, she is a student. She came here to study, not to work as part of a NGO. 

There just seems no sense in her feeling guilty because she does occupy a position of privilege over a lot of people by the virtue of her purposes here. By going and volunteering at some charity teaching a class full of kids English in the back water of Delhi, she might impart some knowledge of English to these kids. She might brighten their day. And don't get me wrong, I think this is important. But I can't help thinking that it would also be taking the position away from an Indian girl who could have done it. That it is teaching English, when maybe they should be taught Hindi. That in all reality, it will probably result in these children being able to say 'Hello! Ten rupee!' with better enunciation rather than anything else. Because at the end of the day, her individual effort, though admirable, means next to nothing in the grand scheme of things, as she would be leaving any way, and the men in government would be left unchanged. The information on the situation for a lot of people would be the same, the legislation on their situation the same, the reality of the situation the same. She would have joined the ranks of all those well-meaning people who felt they could 'do' something for a third world group, who actually furthered the cause of cultural imperialism, took jobs away from the indigenous labourers who really need the jobs, and left the rest powerless by not imparting the knowledge of how to teach and carry on the services they provided for three months. Of course those three months or whatever will have been better than the three months without them, but once these do-gooders leave with their sense of self-satisfaction nice and full, the people they 'helped' will be once more helpless. 

To make a lasting difference there needs to be legislation, the support of people in a position of power, the teaching of teachers with a particular focus on the needs of their particular location, the creation of jobs, indigenous social uplift organisations, more awareness of how the privileged in society can make the lives easier and provide more opportunities for the poor and the oppressed. There doesn't need to be just a vaccination campaign, there needs to be doctor training and a local medical centre that is open all year, built by the local labourers, using local materials. There shouldn't just be an English language class, there should be a school with local teachers, once more built by local labourers using local materials. If local materials aren't possible then they should be subsidized by the government. If those who would teach don't have the ability, then they can be taught by those who do so that they can return empowered, not enthralled. 

 

She is compassionate, a sympathetic and aware young woman who is not blind to the world's evils and inequalities. She could make a difference if she were to finish her degree and become a sociologist who worked to disseminate information on these issues to the rest of the world, to the people in power. To make others aware to that they who do have such powers may use them to actually change the situation. Why is this a thing to be guilty of? To have an ambition for yourself? To know that in your own reality, your priority is to get your dissertation handed in and that might mean you can't go to an orphanage for a couple of afternoons to entertain the kids? That dissertation, that degree will place her in a position of power - she might actually be able to change the lives of the children she mourns, not just entertain them for a few afternoons and leave their true location in society unchanged. 

And maybe I am cynical and a horrible person. It sounds like I completely disregard the effort of individuals in this sort of thing. I don't. I admire them. But there is no sense in not wanting something for yourself. For your happiness. Because it might empower you to REALLY make a difference.

I am on to a new essay. Woolf now. On whether or not gender is a fantasy. I think it is. Thoughts?

The cricket was great. I even understand what an 'over' is now. Ben spent the entire match explaining everything that was happening to Amanda, Saloni and I, so we now vaguely understand what is going on when the men hit the ball and it goes out the park and that is a 'Sixer' and all that what not. Most educational. The match was between Delhi Daredevils and Mumbai Indians (surely a little too obvious?) and I have to say, even with my limited cricket experience, Mumbai were easily the better team. They beat delhi resoundingly by a margin of 100 runs or so I think. What was nice though was that the crowd really didn't seem to care about which team won or lost. They cheered everyone's successes equally, winced with every mistake, went wild whoever hit a 'sixer' (check me with the lingo). What was also a pleasant change to my only other experiences of major sports events (read: rugby with everyone hating everyone else/football with everyone hating everyone else AND drunk men throwing unnamed warm yellow liquid down on you) was that every time there was a good hit or a catch or whatever, all the guys would go completely crazy, stand up on their chairs yelling and singing and break out into Punjabi dance. I swear, any opportunity for the Punjabi dance is taken here. I will miss the breaking out into dance as soon as a drum beat (internal or not) is heard regardless of where or who you are. There were whole families out together, and the atmosphere was really nice and exciting, but not at all in a threatening way. The only off-putting aspect of the whole thing was the teams of white girls at the side of the pitch in hot pants who were the 'cheer leaders'. My friend Egle (being tall and blonde) has been asked to be a cheer leader before, but she turned it down despite the money. And I can see why. These girls didn't do much cheer leading as far as I could see. They spent their time on a podium and every time someone from their team scored a good number or something they would gyrate and shake their hair for five minutes or so, at which point all the younger guys would be pressed up against the fence filming them with their phone cameras. Not entirely brilliant for the cause of women everywhere and all that. It was actually really not nice to watch. But then if these girls wanted to be used as sex objects for four hours then I guess it is their choice. Even Egle, while refusing to be a cheer leader, has agreed to be paid 3000 rs to sit in the front row of a game and be in some of the film of the match in a 'look white girls come watch our players' kind of way. I think she might just be angling to meet Shahrukh Khan though, as he owns the Kolkata Knight Riders. 

In other news, my friend Emma is here! It is most exciting, though she is leaving tonight. In fact the reason I haven't written anything here for a little while is because I have been too distracted running about with her. It has been amazing and I will be sad to see her go. I will give a fuller update on that one tomorrow I think. So until then.

I have finally completed my Wordsworth essay. Possibly not to a satisfactory standard, but it is there on the page anyways. So I am taking an Opportunity.

It was the International Men's Hostel night the other day. It all started out quite nicely. My friend David was hosting alongside this woman with brilliant hair who was apparently a radio show woman. He looked like one of these wierd paintings you get from the EIC Raj of officials 'gone native' in a red kurta and white pajama trousers and these woven leather shoes. If you had placed him on a brocade chair, given him a hookah and stuck some ships in the background you really wouldn't have been able to tell him apart from these old lunatic orientalists from days gone by. 

The cultural program they put on was a bit slow in organisation terms, but the actual acts were generally very good. There was a Sri Lankan tribal dance that we all really liked with two guys wearing loin clothes and blue paint all over their bodies. The Ethiopian guys did a dance as well, which was very fun to watch as they all shook their hips and shimmied. I have noticed that there is a great love of shimmying here. All the Indian men do it as well. Many is a time that we have been dancing and then find ourselves backed into a corner as soon as a Punjabi song comes on as all the Indian men are shimmying at us. It's like some bizarre mating ritual. If they had peacock tails they would be up and wafting. Actually, it all reminds me so much of those wee birds of paradise you see on Planet Earth with the black feather fan with the bright blue stripe. These wee things back their mates into a corner, confuse the hell out of them and then swoop. Perhaps these guys think that is evidently the way to go about things. Getting back to the show, there was also a Sufi band that played some really nice stuff. They were very good, it was a shame they came on at the very end when everyone was starving. Ben, David and our Mauritian friend Kaveesh also played a few songs on guitar and singing. David and Kaveesh sang, and they are both very good it has to be said. They played one nice relaxing reggae number from Mauritius that would be great to listen to in the summer in the evenings and some Beatles and John Mayer. It was really well done. 

Bit annoyed with Marie who has broken up with David for the umpteenth time and who decided she had to leave when David came on as it was all too difficult for her to bear obviously. We all told her not to come when she had started going on about not wanting to hear him or see him or even be in the same building as him, but she had insisted on coming just so that she could create some drama. It has now got to the point that we get either angry or bored of the Dutch people's ridiculous friendships/relationships...ah well. I am sure they will be back together in a week or so. And then the whole rigmarole can begin once more...

Unfortunately the lights all went when we were meant to get food. So everyone ended up a bit grumpy as they were hungry and in the dark. Finally got food however which perked things up and by eleven the power was back. Which meant it was time for dancing! We got in tow with our Ethiopian friend from history and the other guys who had been dancing earlier (one of whom was evidently styling himself on Bob Marley so much it hurt) and some cool Nigerian guys as well. All of them were really good dancers and we had a lot of fun careering about with them. Amanda and I ended up so sweaty it was disgusting. Not as bad as Omar though. Omar is our friend from Paisley (of all the places in all the world, he even knows where Inchinnan is!) and he sweats so much when he is dancing it is like he is on E. Either way, a good night was had by all, and the dancing went on till half one in the morning. My thighs hurt by the end of it. The 'bird of paradise' thing happened A LOT at first, but once we insinuated ourselves into the African group we were well protected. Some of these Indian men are just bonkers. 

In other news, I found a tiny spider on my bed the other day. What was far worse though was that the spider could JUMP. It could leap an inch or so under its own tiny steam. I nearly cried. I was very good though and manage to immobilise it (read: bash it to death with a large book) so that I could pick it up with tissue and chuck it in the bin. I was really proud of my near-lack of freaking out. I didn't even scream. I do however think every little itch or twitch on my skin is a spider. Continuing the bug theme, there are these giant bright acid yellow wasps everywhere and they are really huge and scary. I don't even know what happens to you if they sting you. Goddamned spring. Makes everything be alive. The mosquitoes are back as well. Sigh. Slightly nicer wildlife: there was a small falcon on my balcony the other day. It's the smallest I have seen. There were about thirty eagles swooping about inside our hostel last week too. Most exciting and slightly menacing.

Had a really interesting talk this morning on Indian foreign policy in the years after Independence. Talking about the non-aligned movement, and the personal role of Nehru in the whole thing. He basically decided India should not go into military alliances with the US or USSR block so that he could use both countries for aid and for economic and social links instead. It is quite interesting how the relationship with China deteriorated in the period and how that basically put-paid to the non-aligned movement in practice. Also quite interesting how these countries viewed the coming of the Hydrogen bomb and the atomic bomb as well as the sure path to the destruction of humanity. Ironic that for a government so convinced in earlier years of the evils of nuclear weaponry, India is now a nuclear power and quite keen to make the rest of the world, especially Pakistan, know it. All under the dubious excuse of 'self-defense'. I might try to write an essay on Indian foreign policy as the relationship with China and the USSR is really interesting, especially since the USSR's neutrality during the Indo-China war of the 1960s basically cut the USSR off from the People's Republic, acting in the interest of a capitalist democracy... 

Tonight we are going to the cricket. It is Delhi vs Mumbai. I have never been to a cricket game before now, and I hope it is worth the hassle. The cricket here is much shorter than the stuff at home. Sort of on a par with a football game. All us Europeans are going. Shall be a fun outing. I don't know the rules of cricket, but I am sure there is no problem with that. I will cheer when everyone else does. I have been interested in seeing a match actually ever since ShahRukh Khan brought it all to international attention after he denounced the IPL's decision not to elect Pakistani players into the teams for 'security reasons' and the Shiv Sena went completely bonkers as per and attacked cinemas showing the actor's latest film in Mumbai. 

Other than all this, I am so excited for Emma coming on Friday. Her father is evidently a well-respected cheese as people from his company base here in Delhi have been calling me sorting out how Emma will get to and from places and offering me services. Its all very civilised and I am tempted to abuse their offer of a car to ferry us around the city. Then again, might be more hassle than it is worth, considering how terrible traffic in Delhi is. 

Ah well. Enough for now. Wish us luck at the cricket. Dilli Jao!

Tiny Trip Up North

A bit late. But there we have it. Wordsworth is currently eating my eyes (or so it feels), and I have decided to take a well-deserved break and update.

 05/03/10

Tonight was the North Eastern students Guest Night. I have to say, it was far more organised and professional than our own Grand Shambles. But then, that wouldn't have been hard in all honesty. They followed about the same schedule as we did, with a welcome address, cultural program, dinner and dance. Their chief guest was Deepak Pental, the VC of the University, who, I am sure those of you who remember my earlier blogs will see no change in my opinion, was characteristically late and completely boring and ineffectual. He is such a drab man. Nothing in comparison to all the turbaned stature of Navjeet's father. He exudes 'imperial'. Deepak exudes something along the lines of 'a wee cup of tea'. He is small, wears drab brown clothes (the male equivalent of your granny's), has a droopy expression, a weak smile, unmemorable voice and action, shuffles, and is quite saccharine and silly. He isn't even old. I could forgive an old man. Not a middle-aged one. Sigh.

So of course, he was late, and I had to sit waiting for about two hours getting my legs gnawed to pieces by mosquitoes. I still have the scabs. Not cool. Our mess men were wanderign through the crowd keeping everyone sustained with veg croquettes and fizzy pop though and they laughed when they saw me there. Eventually everything got started though, and the night opened with the cultural dress show. I was most taken with the different Naga and Mizoram dresses. The Naga dress is a patterned woven scarf/skirt that is sort of like a kilt in size and function. It come in varying patterns, depending on the tribe to which the wearer belongs, and whether it is a particular festival, or if it is a married/unmarried woman. They have long strings of jade and ivory beads as well. The Mizoram dress has tall head dresses of flowers and pompoms and peacock feathers. One of the head dresses had two prongs sticking out the sides with long strings of green beads and this one was for more auspicious occasions. After the cultural dress show, there were various dances from the states, including a brilliant one that is done at Assamese New Year. There was a group of boys, all using their own instruments to make the music and singing the lyrics (there was one particular one, Raj, who could REALLY sing, and who I would have happily listened to all night), and then the girls came on to participate in a group dance. It was very joyful, and there was one move that did remind me sort of the funky chicken. The Naga and Mizoram dances were fun as well, lots of stomping and jumping involved. Some of the girls put together a Western Revue dance that was also really well done. They had obviously practiced for a while, as they could even all do the Beyonce Single Ladies dance. I was impressed. After the dances, the girls had got a local group in, The Skinny Boys, who were all either North Eastern or Korean (they tend to be the other cool kid group around here) and who were all girls. They were really very good, and the lead singer and the drummer were particularly good. It was a really nice way to wrap up the programme and wait for dinner. After dinner we had paan (got to love paan). I have learnt to ask for mitha paan now if I ever want sweet paan. Though I tried it with the betel nuts for the first time and I had to spit them out as I couldn't even try to chew them they are so hard. By the end of my second one my teeth were a nice red colour. Thankfully, everyone else's were too, so it wasn't a massive issue. After the dinner there was a DJ (a good DJ at that!) until half twelve and we danced like loonies for about two hours. Met a few more really nice girls, including one from Assam who does physics, and who offered me to stay in her house if I go to Assam in May. 

I left feeling incredibly happy. It was probably better than our own Guest Night. 

Also, note on the fashion of the North East girls - they know how to dress. Buggered if I know where they find these clothes, but god are they fashionable. One girl was in a black, blue and bright pink swirl pattern chiffon playsuit. A playsuit! A chiffon playsuit!!! In DELHI!!!!

All is not lost.

HOLI

Today is Holi! HAPPY HOLI!!!

A word of explanation about Holi:

Holi is a festival where people defy usual social boundaries and come together to throw water and coloured powder at one another. It is effectively a religiously sanctioned paint fight. Men drink bhang (a special lassi made with hash) and everyone eats these special sweets that are sort of like baklava and generally has a very good time. The festival is a play act of Krishna and Radha’s paint fight. Krishna supposedly asked his mother why Radha had such pale skin in comparison to his dark skin, as he was jealous of her complexion. His mother told him to go and paint radha a new colour if he was so jealous as a joke. But Krishna went and got some paint powder and covered Radha in it, causing her to retaliate, and so for the Holi play to happen. And that is why people celebrate Holi by throwing colours at each other.

 

Holi seems to be the time when the world goes mad. As soon as the girls got their hands on the colour, they went wild. Soon we were looking like those modern dancers, completely covered from head to foot in colour. It looked fantastic. And then someone managed to work out how to turn the hose on. And then people started playing in the fountains, and then the water was being poured over everyone, and so all the colours ran into one another. Some people managed to get so wet they got clean by the end of it. I was still a sort of pinky-red-purple colour by the time we were done. It was great fun. Everyone came together and just let inhibitions go, chucking colour and water and running around like loons. The pictures we have are brilliant.

The world outside was mad as well. We were actually locked in the hostel until half four in the afternoon for fear of our safety at the hands of bhang-fuelled revelers. Amanda and Shaina had wanted to go out to JNU in the morning, but they weren’t allowed onto the street. Thankfully we had more than enough fun by ourselves without going out. Lauren and Amanda went out at half four to get some juice and they said they met some men who were obviously completely high and were being verbally quite aggressive and scary. It made them realise that the hostel had a point about not letting us out. All the men who usually don’t speak to girls would have been so high from the bhang that they wouldn’t be scared of us at all. On the contrary, they would be violent and aggressive.

The other thing about Holi is that the colour makes you tired. Everyone who hasn’t had the colour on them says that the tiredness is just an after-effect of running about in the fresh air. But it isn’t the same sort of tired. It is an exhaustion that is mental as well as physical. You can’t think about anything, let alone try to do work or read. You just sleep. We slept for about five hours each and then woke up only to eat and go back to bed. I got no work done today. Not for want of trying, I just couldn’t concentrate at all. Incredibly weird feeling.

Despite the strange narcotic paint, I feel that Holi needs to become a regular feature of my life. I am going to make everyone play it on the Meadows next spring. It is just too good to not keep it up. 

28th February

Have spent the entire day today trying and failing to work in my room. The internet is killing all attempts to do anything however. Also, it is getting hot. All I can cope to have on my in my room is a cotton dress or perhaps my cotton pyjamas or salwaar. Anything that actually sits on my skin is becoming unbearable. It is still February, and yet it is already 27 degrees during the day. And it is no longer cold at night – I can happily take a rickshaw home at night in only a long sleeve top. This all bodes very ill for the coming months.

Egle and I got an auto rickshaw to the metro later in the day and she managed to fire water at a group of boys. We felt so proud. Pay back for the week we have had of running away from every man and child lest they should have a water bomb on their person. I don’t mind water really, or even the paint, but I mind anything else. My friend Sajedeh was hit by what she thought was just a water bomb but she later discovered that it was mixed with urine! A whole new level of human degradation right there. I think I would feel so violated! Uninvited bodily fluids!

In the evening we went out to the Habitat Centre for a civilized Holi celebration with dances, singing and food. There was a strange sort of dance-enactment of the Rada-Krishna Holi fight complete with dancers with huge peacock feather fans strapped to them so that they looked like they had a peacock tail. There was no paint throwing. Instead, 70 million marigolds must have sacrificed themselves for the night as people were chucking the petals around instead to simulate paint. I was there with Lauren, Ben, Elmira, Egle and her boyfriend Carlos, and another girl from France who sounded peculiarly Australian. It was sort of awkward sitting there feeling like a complete gooseberry every time Elmira disappeared and I was left with Lauren and Ben being awkward with each other. Nonetheless, it was a nice thing to go to, and I felt vaguely cultured by the end. After the showe we went to Mocha Café in Defense Colony. I had never been before, and I have to say it is really nice. It is a Moroccan atmosphere, with lots of different kinds of coffee and shisha on offer. We got a ‘Casablanca’ shisha that was apple and mint flavoured. The whole place is fairly reasonably priced as well for somewhere in Defence Colony, and it was really relaxing to be in. We spent a long time in there just sitting and smoking shisha – a pleasant alternative to our usual nights out to Urban Pind or wherever. I am not sure what it would be like in the day though, and it is definitely not a place to go if you are a bit older and not hippy-inclined.

On our way out the café I got hit smack in the side with a water bomb. Thankfully it was only water, but I did have a moment of panic remembering what Sajedeh had told us. Lauren and I just headed home – we had been told that the guards were letting no one in post-11 pm due to Holi dangers but we had realised this was just foolishness as what could they do? Let us sit out on the pavement? (And of course we were right – we were let in no problem.) Ben went off to JNU for the night as he is celebrating Holi there tomorrow. I think Shaina and Amanda are going to go to JNU tomorrow to celebrate as well. Elmira and Egle went back to Carlos’. They are going to a farmhouse in the South of the city for this big expensive Holi party. I am kind of glad we are just staying in the hostel, as it means that we will be able to get some work done hopefully once we have finished playing. 

Hostel Guest Night, or the Grand Fiasco

I agreed to help in our annual hostel gust night, being a good little hosteler and all. At first I had been approached to host the damned thing, but I had said no. Amanda had told me about her experience of the Diwali party and how they had expected a script and all sorts from her, and seeing as I have impending essay deadlines, I just didn't think it was feasible. However, my friend Tanveer then came to me saying she would host it, but would I help her by announcing a few things. I can deal with announcing things, so I said yes. What a mistake that turned out to be.

Tanveer asked me to write the welcome note, and she would write the introduction for the chief guest, Professor Upinder Singh, daughter of the Indian PM and a history lecturer at Delhi University, and everything else that needed writing. Unfortunately, Tanveer buckled under stress mid-week, leaving me to run around writing everything else. I ended up setting the program for the whole night, getting the acts organised into an order, chasing everyone up to make sure they were ready and even printing off the damned programs. I had everyone who was anyone chasing me, from the Provost to the culture committee (who should have set the program themselves seeing as they were the ones in charge of the night from the off). I managed to get everything done in the nick of time, but I felt like I was being run off my feet. Obviously there was nothing that could have been done. All the girls were like headless chickens, the Provost had been completely uninformed of how things were going till the last minute and so felt she could change things at the last minute, the President of the hostel was shirking all responsibility including the writing of her own speeches which she got other girls to do after I point blank refused and then avoided her for two days, and Tanveer was for all intents and purposes MIA. The only person to offer much helpful support was our new resident tutor, who knows Crispin (what historian here DOESN'T know Crispin??), and who was good enough to look over what I had written a couple of times. 

Trying to get the damned thing started was hard enough. None of the acts appeared assembled, Tanveer was nowhere to be seen, and despite my repeated attempts to check that the music was ready for each piece I kept on being told to give two more minutes. How and ever, the night finally kicked off. So I said my welcome note. Tanveer appeared and said her introduction and acted the entire night like nothing was wrong and that I was like a clever child who followed her directions well. Throughout the cultural show I had the Provost hissing in my ear asking me to speed things up and then to make the girls move to a particular piece of stage or sing louder or whatever else she thought was wrong. Despite my obvious powers of telepathy (...) I was unable to satisfy each and every demand and in the end got quite confused. Every time I announced an act there would be two minutes of kerfuffle while the girl who had assured me she had all the music cued and ready to go found the music. Elmira said it was hilarious when I said that "'ready' must be a euphemism for 'not ready'" to the audience by way of explanation of why I announced things that did not appear. The President Maria got really angry with me when I suggested she perhaps should hand out all the committee certificates later on due to time constraints (I had no knowledge of how long each act lasted, and nor did anyone else seem to for that matter, which was interesting when we had allotted the show one hour only) and she told me I was ruining the entire thing for her. Fortunately I was vindicated later when everyone agreed with me that it could have been skipped and that it was as boring and stupid as all hell. 

One thing I learnt while presenting this madness was that I am good at being a host, but no good at improvising acceptable anecdotes to tell in between acts. All I could think of amidst the shambles was how much like a convent the hostel was, and how many of the occupants appeared to have no common sense or concept of reality. I couldn't have dared come out with "So this one time Lauren flashed a nun..."

Some of the acts were very good. Mehrnoush did her Iranian dance - the sexiest classical dance known to man bar belly dancing (ah the irony of an Iranian woman dancing sexily in public when it is illegal in her own country), and the Bangladeshi girls' dance was very professionally done as well. Saloni's salsa and the Mauritian dances stole the show, as everyone thought they would. The African girls' dance was very good as well, and they had painted their faces in a very funky way with loads of white dots. The fashion show (or cultural dress display should I say - apparently 'fashion show' is a term degrading to women according to our Provost) was nice as well. Lauren looked great. Amanda and I had constructed a completely mad Queen Elizabeth outfit complete with ruff for her. 

I could have cried for joy once the whole thing was over. I went upstairs with Amanda and tanya, had a shot of Old Monk for the nerves (you know it is bad when you are breaking out Old Monk. Old Monk is our version of Tesco Value Gin) and went back down to eat. The food was amazing, and the dancing was great fun. I managed to forget all the silliness of the night pretty quickly. We were reminded of the fact that we live in a prison though when the party was abruptly ended at 11 pm sharp, lest we stay up past our bedtimes. It really is truly ridiculous. The guards then started herding the guys out of the hostel, prodding them in the back. 

The night was great fun and frustrating. Fun because of the company, the silliness, the dancing and the general camaraderie. I now know so many more people in the hostel by name having spent several days trying to corral them into some kind of order. It was frustrating because I had been left to do so much more than I had anticipated, had therefore done no work, had managed to piss off several people because I couldn't cater to every little whim as it rose up, everyone had to leave by 11pm and there was no drink involved. Thankfully it is the last large event in the hostel calendar so I need not worry about being preyed upon for anything like this ever again. 

I sound sort of annoyed by the whole thing. I wasn't. I was happy when afterwards people came and told me I had done well and had been a good host. I just wish they could have taken on some of the responsibility themselves. It has also taught me never to organise anything with Tanveer ever again, as she might be unable to cope and thus leave me up shit creek. 

The other interesting thing about the night was Ben's roommate Manjesh. He told me that he hardly recognised me, having not seen me since the start of our time here. Apparently I am 'Indianised'. Am I? I asked Iain and he said that I was certainly a little bit more tanned than usual, which was totally helpful. I find this slightly funny as I was wearing a halter-neck purple dress with a completely inappropriate cleavage: The Indian Look. 

Out of the winter, and into June

So it is the end of February now. Winter is about to end tomorrow with the celebration of Holi. Already it is unsafe to go out in the streets unarmed with a water pistol or a bit of paint. We are like massive walking targets for the water bombs of men everywhere. I don't really mind water, but I do mind anything else. One of my friends got bombed on Friday with a water-pee mix. Pee! It's a whole new level of human degradation and obscenity. We were afraid to begin with, but now there is the added dimension of uninvited bodily fluids being in contact with me. Imagine if it happened on the way to a lecture! What could you do? What if it was half an hour from your place? Half an hour of stinking to high heaven of SOMEONE ELSE'S URINE. *shudder*

I am worried by the weather right now. It is reminiscent of a beautiful June at home. June. In February. It does beg the question: So if this is like June, what is May going to be like? I fear there might be a return to the dripping days of August. I need to get out of Delhi I think.

So new things in my life since I have been in Delhi:

1. I now know the girl from AIM cafe's name: Yuang. It only took five months to ask.

2. I am taking three very interesting courses this semester: Gender in Literature, Romantic poetry and India After Independence. More on these later. Everything in the department seems really organised this time around though, so that is a nice improvement. I am not sitting exams this term as I really feel like the whole thing was such an unnecessary palaver last time. So it will be essays a go-go.

3. I like guava jam.

4. Continuing the fruity theme, I ate a new fruit. There is a fruit here called chiku (they have it in South America too, and it is called Sapodilla I think) that looks like a small dirty potato. I found it at breakfast and picked up and took it to Tanveer who seemed to think much more of the small potato-ish thing than it's appearance would suggest. You cut a chiku open, and inside there is flesh that is quite like an over-ripe pear in texture, soft but a little grainy. And it tastes like caramel. I think it is possibly my favourite fruit alongside pineapple. You don't eat the skin, you scoop it out, or if you are picking one up on the way home, eat it off the skin. And they are addictive. You can easily consume five of these wee things in about as many minutes. They are incredibly sweet and go well in porridge. I have a vague idea to make jam out of them to send home, but I really don't know how to do that. I had never seen them before in my life. that was strange for me, as in the UK we have access to so many international foods, and one so tasty as chiku, I thought I would at least have heard of it. Someone is missing out on making a killing. "Chiku! The fruit that looks like a potato but tastes like caramel!" I can just see it now.

5. I have taken up Urdu classes. We are trying to learn how to write it. It is a beautiful script, called Nastaliq. I am rather bad at it though, as it does all look worryingly like the same squiggle, just in different positions round the page. Still, if I can at least write my name, I will be happy. Thankfully Urdu the spoken language is just a Persian version of Hindi, so I have not too much issue there.

6. I cut my hair, I take vitamins, and yet it still falls out. Actually, that isn't that new is it?

7. Trip to Chandigarh: Went up to Chandigarh with Lauren to stay with dad's friend Navjeet and his wife Meenu and Navjeet's parents. His parents are lovely, though they are both fairly bonkers in their own ways. His dad was quite imperious and obviously incredibly proud of his city and university. He showed us round everything and was anxious that we didn't have to even think in case it was an effort for us. He had decorated the flat they lived in himself, and it was full of plastic and real flower arrangements, strange mood lighting, decoratively arranged soft toys and paintings. There was a cupboard that turned into a mirrored bar and a blue tooth controlled music system. In the room we were sleeping in, we had a lamp made of hermit crab shells all sticking outwards, a green light above the bed, a monkey hanging from the toilet ceiling and a dress-up magic wand pinned to the wall, leather square cushions and a tiger print quilt. It was an eclectic mix of old cat lady and 70s pimp. His mother was constantly asking us why we didn't eat more, and talking about desert in a furtive and giggly way. We loved her, she was such a character. The made us feel so welcome in their home, despite never having met us. Chandigarh itself is a nice city, quite odd. It doesn't feel like India. It is clean, open and green. it feels American actually. Everything in it is built to a convenient and well-organised plan and everything is very new. The lake there is lovely to walk round, and you could take a pedalo out on to the water. I think I would go back for a relaxing weekend if ever I felt I needed to get out of India but couldn't actually get out of the country. 

8. Other small things that come to mind: Small child being hung out of mercedes car door to shit in the street; being asked if I was Mulsim and married by a rickshaw driver; the tchai in my Urdu classes with huge amounts of ginger in it; zazie in the metro; the new urinal on my road everyone now pees on instead of in; new friend from California Shayna; seeing a rickshaw do a somersault and smash right next to me; two monks on a moped; Chinese New Year with Vietnamese nun chant and Ladaki dancing; Wouter and Lauriane's new flat and the tea we attempted; learning that putting bitter chocolate in tchai mix helps everything.

So. Here we are. Back in the present more or less. 

A note on Delhi winters

A note on Delhi winters:

 

Everyone explains that winter here is the period from Divali to Holi. How and ever, when I left India for home I was still only ever needing to put on a light jacket at night, and during the day it had become bearable to wear jeans and a cardigan. However, when I arrived back to the metropolis with Iain, it was freaking freezing. It was drizzling, maybe 5 degrees during that day and misty. Oddly reminiscent of a slightly bleak October in the UK. I was stunned. I was cold for perhaps the first time in India. I hadn’t taken heed of all those who had warned me that Delhi would get cold and that I would feel it too, no matter how hardy the Scots race is and so on and so forth. It was so cold that walking on the stone floors without socks was painful.

None of the buildings here are designed for the cold. So it could in fact be colder IN your room than out of it. The hostel is effectively one big concrete block, so no heat is trapped in the rooms. Ineffective in summer and too effective in winter, this led us to being freezing at night to the extent of having to wear all our clothes in bed as well as all our duvets. In the worst weeks of January I habitually went to bed with:

5 woolen jumpers/hoodie

1 t-shirt

1 pair wool socks

1 pair leggings

1 set fleecy pajama bottoms

2 duvets

1 blanket

1 set wool gloves

1 scarf

Top that if you can…

You didn’t even want to go and have a shower and get changed at all. The showers were for the most part hot, which was a life saver, but even so, we were quite content to let ourselves get dirtier and greasier lest we should have to strip off a layer. I think Amanda epitomized this. She is unashamed to admit that she hardly changed her clothing at all or washed much at all, save her knickers. Lauren came up with the affectionate nickname of ‘Maevis’ to describe Amanda’s new found love of all things a bit baggy, comfortable, and woolen. There was a period where she was wearing a dusty pink chunky knit cardigan and a little white chunky knit beanie, and I have to say, ‘Maevis’ suited her.

We wondered how the rickshaw drivers coped. A lot of them didn’t even have socks on. They all covered their faces with a scarf to try and keep out the wind. The only other change was that some seemed to have acquired perhaps a wool vest to go over their shirt or perhaps, if lucky, an old moth-eaten jacket. If I, wrapped in as many layers as could fit under my wool jacket (got to love wool) was cold in the rickshaw, what the hell were they feeling? It was like a reversal of the month of August – then I wondered how the rickshaw men coped with the sweltering heat and humidity.

It occurred to me on various occasions that the winter in Delhi, while comparatively unextreme compared to the ones at home, would kill a lot of vulnerable people. There is no flu vaccine. But that is the least of the worries of some poor person who lives on a pavement and who has to gather pieces of plastic to make a fire. Except they might not even have been able to given the fog density. You could hardly see two feet in front of your face. I read on the BBC a feature article about the homeless in Delhi. Apparently some government scheme was trying to move some of them out from under a bridge in an effort to ‘clean up’ the city. The journalist had interviewed one or two of them, and they sounded completely desperate. The government was moving them out and leaving them to find some other bridge to colonise, or else to just get on with a slow, cold and hungry death. 

Seeing the little kids in just a shirt, or the rickshaw wallahs in their summer clothes, or the people clustered in a tent around a dung and rubbish fire forced me to consider them so much more than in the heat. At least in the heat they won’t suffer cold and all the ailments it brings. At least then, running around without your sandals on it not a problem, as even the ground is hot. Sleeping outside might even be considered preferable in the summer months. But in the dark, mist and cold, it must have been truly awful to be one of these people. And all we felt we could ‘do’ for anyone was to try and make sure we had biscuits to give the kids and an extra five rupees for the rickshaw wallahs, because Christ knows they deserved it. And perhaps then they could buy some socks. Personally, I would probably have spent it on alcohol. 

Slowly but surely...

Slowly but surely I am catching up with myself.

Iain's trip to India:

1. The guest house we stayed in was down a back street in Karol Bagh. You have little idea how happy I was that I decided we would stay in a five star place for the final two nights just so that we had heating. The floor was cold stone, they over-charged for what you got and the bathroom was shared. Not overly romantic. Not that this was an issue as we were generally so tired after a day full of running about like idiots trying to fit everything in to the tiny amount of time Iain spent here. 

2. Had my third (twice was enough) trip to Agra to see the Taj Mahal and Agra Fort. I am now entirely sure I never need to see Agra again. And yet, I am going to be with Emma. Sigh. Stupid Wonder of the World being beautiful and accessible to me...

We did find a Costa Coffee though in Agra. For all those who would declaim me for being excited about a Costa in India when I should be stopping at a roadside tchai wallah for authenticity's sake, I say this: Agra is a hole. It is a complete state of a city with more rubbish than is usual (and that is saying something for a country with negligible waste disposal at the best of times) and a reputation for giving all who go there some form of food poisoning. So a Costa is a clean oasis in a desert of dust, discarded plastic, and flies. Don't judge me until you go and see for yourself.

Had my first ' you hold my fat baby' photo experience. Most gratifying. I felt more white than I had done in a while.

3. Had a bit of a freak out in Jaipur airport. Thought I might have to go home for a moment or two but I was probably just a bit tired. that's what three a.m starts can do to a girl.

4. Iain and I explored Delhi with the assistance of Lauren and Amanda. It was nice to be able to show Iain all of the little hangouts we have and prove to him that it ain't all bad once you get used to it. He particularly enjoyed Cafe Turtle and a very posh restaurant in South called Bakura. It is in the Maurya Sheratoun and it is incredibly expensive but highly worth it. The best tandoori food you will have in Delhi as far as I can tell so far. Iain even had them pack the lamb we shared and brought it back to the hotel to munch on as a midnight snack while we watched Up together. We also went to Karims: a tiny little conglomeration of kebab shops in Chandni Chowk beside the Jama Masjid. The naan bread there was absolutely divine I have to say. Amanda and I had a lovely almond, date and paneer curry called 'Karim's Special Veg' that was incredibly creamy and very unusual. We were practically scraping the bowl with the naan to try and scoop up the last dribbles of the gravy. I also took him to AIM cafe. After he had left for home, the nice girl (who I recently found out is called Yung) complimented me on his hair and thought it was very sad he wasn't here any more to keep me company. All of my friends in the hostel that got to meet him were incredibly impressed with him as well. Apparently we match one another. How cute. How nauseating.

It was very embarrassing at the airport saying goodbye to him. I was sobbing hysterically and getting a lot of odd looks from the Sikh gentlemen who were exchanging pleasantries beside me. It was such a deflated feeling once I got back into the hostel, but life in the convent goes on. 

Iain seemed to cope with the poverty and everything he thought would get to him incredibly well. He even (shock, horror) had a good time. I think he liked the Lotus Temple and the food the most. He is a huge fan of modern architecture, so it isn't too surprising. He left with many presents, wall-hangings and tchai. I am happy he came, and even happier he enjoyed himself seeing as it was so difficult to convince him to come in the first place. He says that he has been inspired to travel more now that he has made the leap, which makes me very glad, as I love to travel and explore new places and revisit old ones. You can't ask for more than that really. 

I am a terrible blogger.

I promised myself I wouldn't end up getting too far behind with this thing. And yet here we are, in February, and I am still on about the pre-Christmas line up. No more!

I was going to talk about Islay, so here are some things I feel are highly evocative of the trip:

powder snow sinking in and dusting over the sand so the beach turned as white as they sky and only the mirroring sea was distinguishable; the tree that looked like a man from a distance; the iron ship hull on kilcomman beach that I hadn't even realised existed because the tide is never that far out; the snow-seagull; parsnip crisp soup and clootie dumpling in Ardbeg; waving to every driver we passed; brakes failing in the snow; shortbread and tablet made by my dad's elderly patient and Gordon's mum; Gavia sprawling over everyone's bed; Robin attacking me and making me fall over and nearly flash everyone; the white dog that looked like a cross between a bear and a powderpuff; an entire smoked salmon; looking over the Loch Indall and seeing Jura's hills covered in pristine white snow.

A weekend of wine, food, whiskey, the sea, the snow and general meandering throughout Port Charlotte. I have decided I will have my 21st there.

Christmas was wonderful. It was a white Christmas I think for the first time in 10 years, if not longer. I was so completely happy that day. I had my pink and blue silk saree on that I wore for Divali and I felt pretty good, even if I did keep standing on my sash. I got many amazing presents, including a brilliant canvas shopper with a foil printed Tunnocks Teacake on the front, thigh high leather boots, a leather jacket and a plastic badge that resembles the posh lady with the purple poodle out of the animated version of 101 Dalmations. Once more, the ladies won outright at Articulate and Iain said some vaguely inappropriate things as is his wont when surrounded by my family. I enjoyed it very much.

Between Christmas and New Year there was a bit of a blur of activity. I got ready to leave and spent time with people as much as possible. Grace left for Ghana. I had my last milk Oolong in Tchai Ovna for the next few months. It snowed some more. My parents and I spent a brilliant afternoon in Mugdock Country Park. The branches had crazy ice formations on them that made them look like the were frosted with sharpened glass. 

New Year's Eve was also a success from my point of view. My last night to see my friends for the next five months. It was sad to have to say goodbye again, but not nearly as bad as the first time. I am glad I went home to see them all, even if I was running from one thing to the next and didn't get to spend proper time with anyone. We spent the night dancing to terrible 80s music and eating various muffin concoctions, including a feta and sun dried tomato variety that was surprisingly moreish. I drank the champagne my Great Gran had kept for me, but stopped after the bells so as to be able to drive home the next day. On New Year Day I had to go to jack and Susan's, my grandparents' friends, for a wee bit and pay my respects to the relatives before I was off. I was sad to leave my Great Gran again. I really missed her last semester. The letters she sent me were so uplifting and depressing all at once. It isn't nice to leave the people who are in your life. My little cousin Hannah wore harem pants and an Oriental collar jacket. That night we had a family dinner, watched the last ever Dr Who and cried over David Tennant and the lack of time. 

On 2nd January, I made my way once more to the sub-continent. This time, Iain was coming with me.

And I almost didn't make it. At Heathrow I was told I had no ticket, and had to buy a new one. You can imagine the moment of panic, I am sure, upon being told the flight you had booked for two months was in fact not booked in any way, shape or form. Thankfully the ladies at the Air India desk were sympathetic, and I got on the flight nevertheless. 

So. That was home. I am glad I went, and upset that I had to leave everything again. The holiday was too short, but I nearly went straight back to the airport when I returned to Delhi, so perhaps if it had been longer I would have refused altogether. The people in this place are what keeps me here. I know I am having a good time. I know I am lucky. I know I am seeing and doing things I would not have the chance to do at home. But in all reality it is my friends, the people I have met here, that I want to stay here for and not just treat it all as some strange extended holiday that I could back out of. I want to be able to stay with them as long as possible. I will see my friends, family and boy again, but I might not see these girls and guys for years, if at all. And that is definitely worth the stress of walking down our road after dark!

Home part 1

Home Time Part 1: Pre-Islay

 

When I reached terminal 5 at Heathrow airport, I have to say I instantly felt scruffy. We never look our best after early morning flights, and in a terminal surrounded by chic business commuters and other people who can afford to travel BA, I felt positively tramp-like. So one of the first things I did once back on British soil was, aside the obligatory Sunday Observer, go straight into Accessorize and buy a new pair of tights to replace my worn out jersey churridars. After I had them on I felt infinitely better and cleaner. I wandered terminal five for quite a while. I am resolved to fly BA home in May, as this is just too nice a welcome home to spare for the sake of thirty quid.

When I got back to Glasgow airport, I was incredibly excited. Speaking to my mum and dad and Iain on British telephone lines was exciting enough. When you come down the lifts to the baggage reclaim you can see the arrivals greeters outside. And they were there: the family and Iain, waving crazily. I could hardly stand it and practially ran to get my bag, but sod’s law, they were amongst the last to get off the trolley. Mum told me later that I had been gone so long Iain was anxious and kept saying “Where is she? Where is she? It can’t take this long…maybe she went the wrong way…” When I finally was reunited with them I had to take the executive decision between crying mother and crying boyfriend and went for my mother. She is the person who gave birth to me afterall, and also the person I am most careful not to offend for fear. Being able to see them again was one of the happiest moments I have had in a long long time. Iain was crying. It was incredibly touching. Even Euan looked more than happy to see me. Once I had hugged and kissed everyone we went home to our house and I had my first taste of bagel with melted Red Leicester cheese. Amazing. It was beyond words how wonderful it was to see them all. I was so knackered though I don’t think I was much good at conversation. My mum told me I looked gaunt and that my hair had definitely thinned. Wonderful to hear. Apparently I am a lot thinner than I had realised. Even my pyjamas were a bit baggy, and they are elasticated.

The next day, irony of all ironies, I spent running to the loo. I got food poisoning in Terminal five from Wagamammas. Goddamn noodle soup… this was made worse by the fact that I had to do a grand tour and visit all of my relatives. By the time I was coming home from Gran and Grandpa’s I thought I wasn’t going to make the twenty minute journey back. I almost didn’t.

Seeing everyone again was amazing. I gave out everyone’s gifts and so on and they were all happy. Old Gran was especially pleased to see me I think. We are going for lunch with her on Wednesday, and I cant wait. Grandpa was hilariously trying hard not to tell me that I was as brown as a (insert racist term here).

At first it was a bit annoying. Everyone had school and work and all my friends were sitting exams in Edinburgh. So I was kicking about the house a bit. It was amazing to see Susan again. Her mother died right before I came home, so I was feeling particularly glad to see her and finally give her a cuddle. But I had arranged with my mum to go for lunch with Old Gran on Wednesday. When it came, we took her into the town and to Fifi and Ally for champagne high tea. They have beautiful presentation: a lovely white vintage tea tray thing with berries and cream arranged around it, not that it wasn’t appetizing enough already. She hadn’t been in the town for about fifteen years she said. It was a great day to be in. The sky was clear, the Christmas lights were all up on Buchanan Street and everything was looking festive and clean for once. I have to say, picking this time of year to come back to Scotland was a brilliant idea. She was a bit overwhelmed by it all, but we got her back in one piece.

 That evening I went through to Edinburgh to see all of my friends and spend some time with Iain. They were all in the flat to greet me, and it felt lovely to see them all again together. Frances had come all the way from Italy. She is a doll and I was so happy to see her. I was surprised to learn that this was the first time in quite a while any of them had been round at the flat. But more on that one later. Kapil even made a curry in the spirit of the occasion.
The next day Iain had to go do some work for his courses (more on that one later as well) so I went out to meet Robin for coffee in the morning. It was lovely to see him again and catch up. Seems he is becoming quite the armed forces party boy. After meeting Robin I went to the library and saw my boo and Rachel again for a little while, before repairing to Emma’s for Christmas market time.

Every year in Edinburgh there is a German Christmas market at the National Galleries on Princes Street. And every year, there is mulled wine and a man who happily gives stolen (German Christmas cake) away for free. I bought some to bring back to India with me and make everyone in the hostel try. It is one of the most amazing things in the world. o fruity and heavy and yum. We bought some mulled wine spices as well to make later on. Cannot wait. Ran from the Christmas Market to Starbucks to meet Iain Alex. I hadn’t seen him either and so was overjoyed to see him. Gave him his Om UV t-shirt. I hope he actually wears the damned thing seeing as it took a total of four flights to get it to him. Time was cut short however as had to go to see Peter Pan with Frances at the Lyceum (you can pack a LOT in a day if you just try). About twenty minutes in, Frances leaned over and asked me what a pantomime is. I could hardly believe it. I hate panto, but I had gone with her as she had been so insistent and she had come all the way from Italy for it after all. This was a classy panto as well, with proper wires for people to fly, no has-been comedians and no ‘Buttons’ or ‘Widow Twanky’ characters. But she didn’t like it. I think she was too hyped up for the real play of Peter Pan, not something where everyone sounds like they are from Leith and small children yell out at random points and the story line is effectively brutalized. I enjoyed her reaction more than the production.

After the panto, (gosh wasn’t I festive?) I went back to Emma’s to have mulled wine. Iain Alex joined us and we watched Dil Bole Hadippa! A wonderful film that is effectively the Indian version of She’s The Man. I have converted them to Bollywood. Now I will have support when Kapil goes on one of his rants about Bollywood.

The next morning I got up super early and Frances and I went back to Glasgow to meet my mother for lunch. We went to Rogano and sat in the bar, had champagne cocktails and amazing fish soup with rouille and croutons. The coffee with tablet there is one of the things I look forward to most about being back home with the rents. The family were really pleased to see Frances again as well, as they think she is the bee’s knees. She brought various exciting chocolate products as well from `Italy, so she couldn’t have gone wrong. Mum made a huge dinner of beef Wellington as well, the right way this time thankfully. My stomach decided to revolt on that one the next morning as well, but it was well worth the half hour I had to spend on the loo. I find it so ironic that being at home made me sick twice in one week – far more frequent than in Delhi.

The next day Frances and I spent in Glasgow looking for snow boots and going to see Where The Wild things are. I enjoyed the soundtrack and James Gandolfini as the voice of Carol. I didn’t really get the inane squee that many other people seem to have gotten though, as I had never read the book as a kid so I don’t think I was in the right frame of mind. But oh well. I still enjoyed it, just not as much as Frances. Afterwards we went back through to Edinburgh. She left for Italy the next morning. I was sad to see her go, but not as horrifically upset as last time. Saying goodbye to folks does get easier as it goes along.

I came back to Glasgow on Monday. For the next five days I stayed in Glasgow. I saw Grace again for the first time in a long while. We drank obscene amounts of tea. Tea is becoming a definite feature of the different stages of my day. Went round to Susan’s for dinner as well and had pasta for the first time since late October or something. Most exciting. I met my Grandmother and we went shopping together as we always do in the week before Christmas and got an ace leather jacket from topshop. Once again, I began to feel slightly bored…I was left at home with not much to do. But I managed to fill my time in somehow.

The next installment is: Islay. Where the whiskey comes from.

Installment 1: Goa

Lauren and I went to Goa together for five days at the end of semester. We stayed in a beach shack guesthouse called Hotel Paradise at Anjuna beach, of 1970s and 80s acid parties fame. Goa is a beautiful place. The coastline is fairly unspoilt, bar a few petrochemical plants (just swim up stream!) and the towns are few and far between. There are not too many cars, as most people prefer mopeds to negotiate the windy, single-track roads and byways. Unlike most of India, the Catholic presence in Goa is far more evident: in the little immaculate white churches, in the roadside shrines covered, ironically, in marigold garlands, in the terraced town houses. All the people we met from Goa itself were good natured, happy, and anxious that we should see Goa as the tropical paradise it really was. There are a lot of white people living in Goa. Possibly they are relics from the acid days, and you can tell just from speaking to some of them, that this is not a prejudiced assumption. Instead of detailing each day, I will try to summarise the things that stuck out most in my mind about the trip:

1.   The sea food. I know I think about food a lot. It is generally one of the things on my mind at nearly all hours of the day. And, having lived on pretty much vegetable soup, radish and lauki salad and porridge for a month beforehand (so depressing), the sea food in Goa was an incredible prospect. On our second night we had a whole lobster each, cooked to perfection in garlic butter, for under ten pounds. I had tiger prawns and calamari, all fresh from the sea that day, all cooked to perfection. Anjuna beach is typically very busy with tourists in the high season, but in early December it is perfect. There aren’t too many tourists, and so there is more availability of fish, and the prices are lower. I don’t think I had eaten so well in the four months I had been here. Not only that, fresh fruit juice was everywhere, there were ladies selling coconuts on the beach for 15-20 Rs a pop, and loads of stuff was vegan/vegetarian and, above all, fresh. That one week restored my faith in food.

2.   The drug casualties. There were groups of middle-aged to aging men and women on the beach, all looking a bit too brown for their own good. They all wore ridiculous clothes. One man I saw in a red cloth thong (I was later horrified to find out he came from Scotland). Women tended to wear incredibly tight mini dresses and biker boots. There were a lot of biker boots. And everyone had that ‘rave’ style clothing: halfway between hippy and acid house, with long elfin hoods and zigzag hemlines. One older man came up to us on the beach and just stared at Lauren as if she was an alien and then yelled “Oh my GOD! You are SO WHITE!!” He then proceeded to tell us about his history book that would help rewrite a lot of modern history and solve various conspiracy theories. He even invited us back to his beach shack. We ran away to the other end of the beach to avoid him. Another man, a little younger and a lot sleazier, asked me if I knew what exactly I was taking a photograph of (a palm tree filled beach scene to make everyone at home incredibly jealous, or so I thought). I said no, I had no idea it was famous for anything in particular. He told me that I was taking photographs of one of the most famous party places in the world, and that once he had known several thousand people to party there at once. “Even Dr Hoffman attended,” he said sagely, expecting me to be impressed with these higher echelons of partying. He was less smug when I told him I had no idea who Dr Hoffman was. I hope it made him feel old. Or at least, too old to be hitting on me. On a different occasion, Lauren and I saw an old woman wandering the beach in purple tie-dye spandex looking a bit too dazed and confused. She was a sorry sight. A lot of people obviously just stayed in Anjuna. And why not? It is beautiful and has so much of what they love. Every single beach bar plays awful trance every day, all day, in homage to the Glory Days.

3.   The beaches. They were beautiful. Everything the Bounty advert had promised came true. They were smooth, palm tree-lined stretches of golden sand. The water was warm enough to go in without flinching. The heat of the day meant you had to get in to swim just to cool off. There were hardly any rocks, and hardly any seaweed. All you had to watch out for were lots of little hermit crabs that were washed up in the surf. Every beach had its quotient of beach shack restro-bars, all playing either trance or Bob Marley. The latter was generally preferable. Each restro-bar had its own sun loungers, so you could sit and order from the comfort of your lounger and someone could watch your stuff when you went in swimming. Patrolling the beach are men and women, all selling something or other. Many of the women are carrying great baskets on their heads with pineapples and coconuts inside. They give you the coconut with the top hacked off so that you can drink the water, and then they will hack it up again so that you can eat the cream inside. Other women are carrying huge bags of jewelry hidden within the folds of their saree. We eventually caved into these and bought one anklet each off two different women, to try and be fair. The women would approach you and introduce themselves and then tell me that my friend was “White like chicken!” or “White like milk!” (sense a theme?). They would warn me in strong tones: “You are sister? No sister…well…your friend, she is so white, like milk. You must keep her out of sun. Very dangerous for her. You must do this.” A few of them were incredibly wily and funny women. One sticks out in my mind called Tanya, who sat and talked with us for about half an hour on everything and anything and somehow managed to steer the conversation to her anklets every thirty seconds and then would giggle when we tried to avoid the question. The men wandering about gave massages. I have to say, some were a bit too enthusiastic to give massages to us, but some were just plying a trade. I witnessed one incredibly fat and hairy man covered in gold jewelry and a huge moustache in just his underwear getting rubbed down by some poor little old man. It was more than slightly horrifying.

4.   I had my first Ayurvedic massage. Not by a wee man on the beach, but in a salon called the Orange Salon in the Villa Anjuna hotel. It was very nice and relaxing, though the woman laughed at me for asking if I should take my bikini top off or not. It was also a bit more than awkward when, once finished, they sat us both in a steam room together to drip for a while and then led us to a shower together too. When we got in the steam room, it was incredibly awkward and we just had to laugh to keep from imploding with the ridiculousness of it all.  I had never envisaged that Lauren and I’s friendship would take such a personal turn. Apparently this always happens to her, a naked embarrassing moment, and I should have known better. Ah well. Nothing I haven’t seen before.

 

By the time we left Goa, there was a noticeable increase in the amount of Brits on Tour. I think I wouldn’t have liked it so much if it had been too busy. On the Wednesday it was the flea market in Anjuna. People from all over the state come for it, and it is a major tourist attraction. Stalls selling spices, teas, cheap rave clothes, designer leather goods, and every kind of jewelry you could think of, all shouted for attention. It was quite overwhelming. I got Iain a silver cuff for his Christmas, but we eventually had to leave and go get in the water just so that we could escape the bustle. The other issue we had was that there was no street lighting or beach lighting in Anjuna. To get to a beach bar for dinner, one would have to walk across a good stretch of unlit beach: not something recommended for young women. If only there had been some more lighting, I am sure our stay would have been perfect. We were knackered by the time we left. We hadn’t had much sleep, not due to partying, but due to the beach shack we stayed in. it had a thatched roof. You could hear every little shuffle of tiny feet in the night. It might have been geckos. It might have been mice, Worse, it might have been rats, cockroaches, or snakes. We didn’t know. All we knew was that occasionally there would be a scuttling sound right above our heads, or in the bathroom, that would freak us right out and make it impossible to sleep for fear that as soon as you closed your eyes a snake would drop onto your face and a rat would munch on your toes. I was sad to leave Goa. It was a tropical paradise. You could see why it is becoming an incredibly popular place for tour packages. The perfect dose of winter sun, cheap and good food and parties.

I think if I went back though it would be about the same time. It was the relaxation post-exams that I needed before heading home for Christmas. I was completely ready to go home. I have been looking forward to it for weeks and weeks. It is not that I don’t like it here. I do. I was just ready to go home. To see the family. See Iain. My friends. Glasgow in December rain. The German Christmas Market. Things you don’t think you will miss, like cheese. (Real cheese is non-vegetarian, and paneer doesn’t count as real cheese.) Home time will be my next installment.

BACK BACK BACK

Well, apologies are necessary I guess. I completely ignored this thing throughout my Christmas holiday, despite having some interesting experiences that I am fairly sure I could share and no one would be too bored by it. So in the coming days, I will devote one blog entry per Awesome Moment and we will see if that does the elapsed time some justice.