So where were we?
Ah yes…I we left you last time about to head out on Sunday to go shopping. For those of you with attention span of my younger brother (aka goldfish), I'll try and be brief as I condense the entire happenings of the last week into the following blog post.
Today is Sunday. This time last week we were heading out on a shopping excursion with Soni, our Indian sister from Delhi. I had thought we'd be going to one of the posh new malls. Turns our we headed to a famous market in the centre of Delhi. I've no idea what it was called, but I do know that it was like being somewhere that took all the people from Times Square and Oxford Circus and crammed them into about half the space.
Apparently it was so busy as it was the last full shopping day before Diwali. This meant I stood in a queue for a cash machine for about 40mins. Miraculously it seems that when it comes to queuing for the ATM normal India protocol for waiting in a queue (push, jostle, scramble to get to the front as quickly as possible) is put on hold, in favour of actually waiting in line. I'd have felt almost at home were it not for the countless street traders trying to sell me cheap fold up laundry baskets or cloth bags. Typically, it turns out I could really do with a cloth bag, and Fan is eyeing the pile of dirty laundry in the corner of the room suspiciously!
Once cashed up, we proceeded to jostle through crowds and past tables offering various wares – everything from fluorescent Ganesh icons, to authentic Ralex and Abibas watches! Our goal was to get Fan a ladies suit, and me a kurta pajama – which is like a man's long nightshirt, with accompanying trousers worn during the day.
After walking for what seemed f**king ages, during which time Fan purchased some baggy cotton trousers, which I'm actually pretty envious of, as they seem very cool, and allow ease of movement, we finally came to the formal wear area of the market – a maze of tiny corridors with open fronted shops each selling pretty much the same items. Some of the shop keepers were trying manfully to drum up custom by quoting their apparently excellent prices in a way not dissimilar (I imagine, accounting for the obvious linguistic differences) to an east end fruit seller. Other shopkeepers, on the other hand, seemed genuinely put out that you had deemed their store worthy of a visit. Bizarre. Although, since we were in a bazaar…perhaps not that bizarre after all. (chortle chortle!)
After much wrangling and indecision…and more walking, we finally came away with the desire items, thanks in no small part to the haggling skills of Soni, who managed to extract the Indian price from the shopkeepers who were intent on getting the 'white person special price' out of us. You can see how beautiful we look in our new clothes in the pictures below. N.B. is it just me, or do we look like we've got extra long bodies and tiny legs?!
In all of this retail therapy, we'd managed to get together everything we needed to satisfy the Myanmar Embassy. So having booked a taxi to take us to the school after what we hoped would be our final visit to the embassy for some time, we headed out Nyaya Marg in Chanakypuri, Delhi's diplomatic quarter. The secretary at the embassy, whose name, by happy chance, is Tara, told us to come back after 15 days to sort out attaching the Visas to our passports. When we suggested that since we were flying in 15 days, and might need our passports sooner, she thankfully looked kindly upon us and told us to come back 5 days before our flight was due to ensure everything was taken care of. As I write, it is still in the hands of the gods/goddesses whether we will have a visa to board the plane, but I am putting faith in Tara – both the human and Goddess versions.
After a very comfortable (for Fan…I had a massive suitcase jabbing into me) yet slightly too expensive taxi journey, we arrived at the school just as it was closing for Diwali. We did manage to meet the new principle and catch up with Babaji (the schools ageing watchman) and the lady I only know as 'sister' who helps with the cleaning of the school and with the looking after the kindergarten classes.
Our arrival fortunately overlapped with a number of the founders of the school, of whom Janet and Mota will be known to many Leamington readers of this blog. It was great to be able to touch base with them live at the coalface (so to speak…I dearly hope I'm able to come up with a more apt metaphor before I post this, but past precedence does not bode well), and to catch up with the progress of the school – of which a new financial and admin system and the much overdue appointment of a new chief clerk are two of the highlights to report.
Our first day or so in Kothi (the village in India where we are based while at the school) comprised of settling in and pitching in with making of food and other household chores. This brings us up to Wednesday, which is Diwali (elsewhere spelt dippavli and other variants), India's festival of lights – where throughout the land people light lamps (diyas) symbolising the light of good and truth exposing and warding off the darkness of evil.
In truth, whilst this element is certainly present, I asked Soni while we were in Delhi battling the shopping crowds whether Diwali had lost some of its spirit to the rampant march of Western capitalism…I did not quite phrase it in such unnecessarily flowery language…but she immediately agreed, and as our conversation developed it became clear that Diwali is fast going the way of Christmas.
For those who choose to give but a brief nod to the spirit of the festival, their actions seem to consist of buying various cheap candles, which burn out after about 40min, and large numbers of cheap fireworks. After a good few drinks, what appears to develop is a competition to make as much firework related noise and spectacle from your rooftop as possible. I am glad to report that this year, perhaps inured to the ridiculously absent health and safety procedures courtesy of my experiences last time in India, I enjoyed taking part in this pyrotechnic fun. Usually fireworks leave me more apathetic than a referendum on whether 6-of-one or half-a-dozen of the other is more important…but perhaps it was Fan's natural fearlessness and sense of fun that rubbed off on me. I found myself trying to design a super roman candle by tying a banger (aptly named 'atom bomb') to the flame end of the roman candle. It didn't quite come off as planned, but it still surprised the audience of leamingtonians and native Sikhs.
I am glad to report that Sodagar (my Indian father) did not feel the same need this time round to return to numerous half-lit fire works and stare down upon them curiously – wondering why they had the temerity not to launch, while keeping his face a potentially 3rd degree burning 8 inches from the fizzling item.
The days following the diwali celebrations were both gratefully received and somewhat frustratingly endured. We were able to use broadband to catch up on bits and pieces and make visits to friends I had made during my last visit. For Fan this generally meant having her clothes and jewellery choices scrutinised by mothers and wives…and drinking chai that at times was so sweet you could feel it decaying your teeth before you'd even swallowed it.
I also learnt some vital health related lessons about exercising in rural India. Since being inspired by two speakers on health: Steve Jack and Skip from Naked Health, and a book called 'born to run', I have taken up running – aiming to run for half an hour each day. The results have been amazing – I feel happier constantly and my energy levels are back to where I always expected they should be.
One thing I learnt the hard way, however, is that if you go running at dusk through the fields of Haryana, you'd better inhale through your nose! Within about four breaths I'd probably inhaled about double my recommended daily dose of protein in the form of various flies, midges and mosquitoes. I have found since that even when inhaling through my nose, the odd flying insect will still manage to lodge itself halfway down my windpipe – thus totally throwing me off my rhythm and causing the probably already mystified farm workers to wander what type of crazy gora has landed in their world...and why he chooses to run, sweat profusely and periodically choke on what appears to be thin air (they of course can't see the winged assailant that has launched a kamikaze mission up my nose).
On Saturday Fan experienced her first Indian marriage, although sadly/luckily (depending on your perspective and patience) we had to leave before the bride and groom actually arrived to the received by the guests. Therefore all Fan discovered was that you can eat yourself into a stupor at these events, often with questionable benefits to one's stomach…and that the 'entertainments' tend to consist of one or two rehearsed dances being performed on rotation ad infinitum top a variety of hindi and Punjabi songs.
Certainly the best way to entertain oneself (if you happen to be us) is to take a Frisbee with you and play Frisbee with a horde of kids…some who don't quite get the catching part and proceed to let the flying disc clock them straight on the head…luckily they see the funny side, instead of causing a minor diplomatic incident by running to their parents to describe how the evil white person has been torturing them.
On a slightly less joyful note, throughout much of the period post diwali, our hosts daughter…and therefore our other Indian sister, Sharan has been quite ill – she has typhoid and malaria…and now has only one functioning kidney, so it was a cause for major concern when she began throwing up whatever she ate. Unable to keep enyhting down, this usually bubbly girl became a pale, wimpering shadow of her former self. We were blessed to see first hand just how dedicted and hard working our Indian parents are. Narinder, our mother consistenyl forewent sleep to care for sharan during bouts of vomiting and fitful light sleep. Sodagar, our father, managed to marshall medicines, doctors and appointments with hospital specialists, while all the time maintiainging the workload of busy famer and managing director of the school.
I am very glad to report, one week on from Sharan taking seriously ill, that she certainly seems to be on the mend, and has taken up her former role of tractor usage supervisor with renewed relish and zeal.
Monday dawned bright and notably cooler. Today was to be our first day at school. With sharan in hospital in the nearby city of Hisar and the family staying with relatives in the same city during her treatment and immediate treatment and convalescence, we had been left the family's 125cc scooter with which to get to and from the school and to the village to acquire whatever food we required. Those who know me/have driven with me will know I appreciate the expreicnce of acceleration assisted automotive locomotion…so to have under my control (most of the time) a two wheeled vehicle that exposed one gloriously to the rushing wind in one's hair was a true thrill.
Unsurprisingly I swiftly had to reign in my both my speed and my awareness…and here in India, rural roads have a tendency to be dug up with no apprarent logic or shcoedule…and be filled in in a way that is rudimentary at best…usually something along the lines of 'let's fill in this 4ft wide and deep hole with a laod of dust and a handful of broken bricks…yeah…that'll do the same job ans the smooth tarmac we've senselessly dug up…perfect'
Right…I've decided that I'll bring you up to speed with our activities at the school in the next blog. I face criticism for the length of these blogs…but to be honest they are not intended to be f**king facebook statuses. If you want that go suck of mark zukerberg. They are intended to be something you enjoy…which you accept take as much time as they need to take. Have a nice big cuppa/glass of wine/pint while taking them in…let yourself take a moment for yourself…and indulge my literary self-indulgence J .
That said though, I'm aware that anything much beyond the 2000 words this effort is currently nearing starts to become a bit like transformers 3 (unnecessarily long)…the solace being that I would probably have to talk about felching dead jews in a gas chamber whilst lauding paedophilia for this blog to become even half as objectionable as Transformers 3.
In fact…that's decided it…I shall finish this blog with some sage advice about India…and with a rant.
First the rant…which is about Transformers 3 (as you might have guessed).
Let's go back to what must have been my 4th christmas. Like any good western child raised at the bosom of capitalism…my 4th Christmas was the moment I realised my parents did actually love me…this moment happened to coincide with the moment that I received the Optimus Prime Transformers toy action figure as my main present…I cannot accurately remember whether it was my parents, or a slightly more rich relative who actually purchased the toy…but what I did know was that my parents were intimately woven into the appearance of this toy in my life…and it proved beyond question that they loved me and that I was special.
Let's be clear…this wasn't just any toy…this wasn't even just any Transformer toy…this was motherf**king Optimus Prime!!!!! Only the biggest, best toy available on the planet. Let me give you a couple of potentially unashamedly sexist parallels to make clear just why I was so ecstatic…imagine being a lady who loved jewels and gems…and having requested a stone for Christmas…your partner proceeds to present you with a diamond that was not some 2mm x 2mm engagement ring type diamond…but was infact a flawless diamond the size of a large egg. You'd be pretty impressed right? Or imagine if you were a football mad kid with ridiculously rich parents…and you asked them for a football club for Christmas…you're expecting maybe Yeovil Town, or Crystal Palace at a push…but then on Xmas day, your loving and worryingly wealthy parents present you with the keys to Barcelona or Real Madrid.
To complete the picture…upon receiving my Optimus Prime action figure I felt like I'd been given the massive diamond and the world beating football club all at once.
Fast forward approx 25 years…the first and second transformers movies have hit the big screen…and been seen and geekily appreciated by yours truly…who even admits to having weird precognitive dreams about certain sequences within the first film…and who takes massive inspiration from the films for his currently under construction magnum opus – a set of mythic chronicles about a shapeshifting transforming Hip Hop Woodlouse.
The excitement levels are therefore ramped up beyond expression when the trailer for a 3rd Transformers film hits the airwaves…complete with hints at truths behind various of the conspiracy theories your truly enjoys digging into.
The release date arrives…and I walk/run with my beautiful fiancé in tow to the 11am showing of the film.
I treat myself to a rare tub of ben & jerry's (rare being the price!!)
We sit back and wait for the spectacle to unfold. It starts promisingly enough…yet slowly but surely the truth creeps up on us. About 1/3rd of the way through the film it becomes clear that 'film' is a wholly unsuitable term for the plotless expolsion fest we are currently witnessing. We have to sit through a further 2hrs of utter drivel before escaping into the summer sunshine to lament the 3hrs of our life that can never be returned to us. We suddenly feel grateful that people living in slums around the world will probably be too concerned with real-life matters to even be aware that such a crime against humanity is being perpetrated on cinema screens throughout the western world.
There is (albeit a very slim) danger that having read my words, which by the way cannot disparage this film brutally enough, you might feel tempted to go out and watch said film, just to see how bad it is. DON'T! It's 3hrs long ffs! If you do decide to watch it out of some morbid curiosity…then I will be forced to conclude that you are in fact a total moron, who deserves to have their face sucked off by a rabid badger!
That's just about it for my views on Transformers 3…except to say that if you want to experience something that manages in one fell swoop to insult your intelligence, manhood, womanhood, senses, decency, credulity and faith in god/life/hope…this film is so bad, it won't even manage to do any of these things…it will just leave you empty and cursing the womb that gave you birth.
Apart from that, it's not a bad film.
Rant over…let me end this blog with some words that might be constructively useful, rather than just steering you clear of such aborted stillbirths of creativity that have the misfortune to be labelled as 'cinema'.
I am currently in a village in the Pubjab, where Fan and I have joined some Punjabi friends from Leamington to commemorate the passing of their father/husband with a 72hr continuous reading of the sikh holy book – the Guru Garant Sahib – in the village where the deceased was born.
After much animated and amused discussion…Nav (my Punjabi friend) and I have come up with a fool proof system for enjoying a stress free trip to india. It is so simple and easy, we are strongly considering pitching it for a high price to guides such as the Lonely Planet and Rough Guide.
In our boundless magnanimity, we have decided to share with you the secret for free, hoping that the avalanche of good karmas we accrue will help to offset some of our more youthful indiscretions.
To enjoy a trip to India, while maintaining a mind of joyful, calm equanimity…you need only do one thing: remove the word 'surely' from you vocabulary for the duration of your time in India.
Let me give you a few examples:
'Surely that man won't be stupid enough to try to cross this motorway while pushing that bike loaded with about 3tons of bricks'
'Surely the bus driver can see we are simply stopped at some traffic lights and therefore does not need to beep the horn continuously until I get a migraine'
'Surely they've put a wall up in the middle of this road for a good reason…and surely they've realised that at night there will be no way of seeing this wall before it's too late to stop yourself crashing into it'
'Surely the waiter can see that the 'cloth' with which he just 'cleaned' our table was dirtier than a piece of post-diarrhoea toilet paper'
'Surely a queue would have been a far more effective way of ensuring each of us got a ticket before the train left'
And here is the best one of all that we personally encountered:
'Surely you would go to the train station to book your train ticket…and not the bus station'
Any time you encounter any of these, or any other situations of a similar nature…and you find the phrase 'surely…' arising in your internal monologue…all you need to do is to take a deep breath and say to your self, "ahhh…of course…this is India...'surely' does not work here…"
And before you know it, your mind will be free of incredulity and tension…and you will be amply equipped to face any challenge India can offer.
Stay tuned for updates on our activities at the school, our further attempts to get a visa for Myanmar and Guru Nanak's birthday.
Love and blessings.
x
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