Just touched down in Indian Town

9th Dec - 11th Dec 2014

The only thing keeping me warm, as I stand on the platform at Kings Cross St Pancras station in the unrelenting three degree cold, is my seething rage towards the English Transport system; the last two trains to Brighton via Gatwick Airport have been cancelled and I have a flight to catch in less than two hours. Charming… as if I’m not already eager enough to leave the miserable British winter behind. Luckily I just about make my flight, but it’s not exactly the best way to start the twenty-hour journey to my destination where I shall be for the next three months: Incredible India.

   Incomprehensibly tired, having as always opted to watch the array of new films on board and a boxset of Fargo over any in-flight snoozes, I land in Bangalore donning thick leggings, a hoodie and my winter coat draped over my already perspiring arm. The weather, as predicted, is beautiful. That wonderful smell, which I always associate with joy, hits me as soon as I leave the plane; the aroma of heat and sunshine that I so often seek out over the damp cold of London.

   As I wait for my pre-booked taxi I observe the sea of South Indian faces, most of the complexions are bronzed a rich, dark brown by the sun. There are so many kind, friendly faces, and a large handful of handsome people with sharp, pleasant features. I have deliberately spent as little time on my appearance as possible in the attempt to blend in and not attract any attention to myself – hair dishevelled and limp from the flight, make-up non existent and large spectacles to obscure my face… but alas my clothing and demeanour gives me away, and I am clearly a tourist in my parents’ homeland.

Palm trees line the entire motorway

  The three and a half hour ride to Hassan, a little village between Bangalore and Mangalore where my brother, Chirag, currently resides in the Ayurvedic college, is an opportunity to look out of the window at the palm trees and lush vegetation, while the wind blows in my now heavily matted hair. I should use the time to sleep, really. My driver, another kind, sweet-faced man, obliges me as I continue to banter with him throughout the journey, further giving away the fact that I most certainly am not from around her as I talk loud and brashly, my speech peppered with automatic curse words as is my style. Hardly proper etiquette for a woman, ey?

  As we approach the village and drive through Hassan I am expecting, after listening to my brother’s description of it, a bit of a dead-zone. A few stray people here and there, a shop or two, maybe a few places to eat and little else. Not the best assumption to make considering the densely populated country in question! Instead, the place reminds me a bit of Ghatkopar, a bustling area my sister and I stayed in a year back in the suburbs of Mumbai – plenty of small shops and/or stalls squeezed tightly together, like a crowded mouth full of overlapping teeth, dusty streets littered with cars, rickshaws and lorries, people milling about, hanging out of stalls, squatting on the floor under the shade of an umbrella. Though there is a sense of a languid, generally slower pace in comparison to Mumbai… this is the south after all.

This says it all: No Urgent Service
 i.e. we ain't in no rush

   Even the animals have a distinct lack of urgency. Later in the day we came across a gecko in our quarters, stuck fast in one position the floor, unmoving and happy to lounge undisturbed for hours. Another humorous observation Chirag and I made as we rode the rickshaw to the shop was that the stray animals, be it cows, dogs, insects, all seemed to have that South Indian mentality. The way the stray dogs and cows roam around the roads, carefree and ignorant of any orderly system, yet knowing when to find an opening in the road to cross at a leisurely pace without being knocked over by traffic, is not unlike the vehicles and pedestrians that have a complete disregard for road safety - and yet probably experience far less accidents than the rigid, ‘law-abiding’ system back home. I find it quite charming actually, that on the surface the hustle and bustle appears at first dangerous and disorderly, but scrutinise the situation a little further and everyone seems to have an automatic regard for each other on the roads and a good sense of spatial awareness. The drivers make sure to beep their horns, somewhat incessantly, to alert others of their presence and effortlessly dodge and weave around each other, and though it may look like traffic is coming at speed and that crossing the road is a hazard, there is no doubt that drivers will slow down for you. In some strange, chaotic way everything seems to work in harmony.

  Apologies, I’ve gone off on a tangent. Back to my approach into Hassan: perhaps it’s the sleep deprivation but I feel a little overwhelmed and anxious looking around, knowing that I stand out way more in this little village compared to the big cities. All that goes away as soon as I see Chirag in a bright blue t-shirt walking towards the taxi as I reach my destination. It probably has something to do with the fact that my brother was the very first friend I made when I had just been taken home from my mother’s womb and put into a cot with this one year old baby boy, but I instantly feel at home, and as we catch up I almost forget that this is not just a routine visit to his abode in Crouch End and that we are in fact in rural India!

   Looking around our new living quarters I am pleased to be welcomed into a tranquil, clean and modern place. It doesn’t differ much from a pleasant holiday apartment in Europe, even down to the odd gecko/dragonfly/butterfly. It is a complete contrast to the dusty (now muddy as I seem to have brought the London rains with me) uneven, crowded roads just outside, where the nearby reservoir is polluted with rubbish and the streets are lined with garbage. My dad says he can’t stand India, that he finds it dirty and unhygienic… but you almost don’t notice it if you appreciate India for its real beauty and rich heritage rather than worry about a bit of smelly trash on the street. Though I do wonder why there aren’t more street cleaner jobs available, especially because I have encountered some ridiculous job positions such as the ‘bag-packing-guy’ who packs up your shopping after the cashier rings it through the till and then ties it up, only for you to go to straight the ‘packed-bag-checker’ who then opens the bag and checks the items against your receipt. Unnecessary but humorous all the same. Just another quirky idiosyncrasy that makes India so intriguing.

   After all the travelling I’m famished, so we head to one of the only two restaurants that have been tried and tested, and frequented daily thereafter, for a delightful lunch. The bill: not even two quid between us! The only downfall is how spicy the food is and we all know about my chilli intolerance. I must choose my meals very carefully and stay vigilant with every mouthful lest I bite into bits of whole chilli (which of course I did, many times, followed by inevitable heartburn and indigestion and a scorched, ruined palate). On the subject of cheap and cheerful and the pound still strong against the rupee – something that I just don’t know if I could ever get used to but happily welcome what with my budget and quitting employment to travel – the rickshaw is a mere 40p for a 2-3mile journey, split that between two or three people and its 15p each! The vodka and lime-water at the restaurant is £1.20 and the meals start from as little as 25p for a good, hearty vegetarian meal and no more than £1.50 for a huge meat dish plus side.

An amazing, huge North Indian thali for a mere £1!!

   Now Chirag has been here a month already, and had previously entertained me with stories of how the locals all assume he is a Maharajah (king) from the way he dresses in regal, well-fitted kurtas bought from the local bazaar and matching jewellery, topped off with a heavy, luxurious shawl. Apparently the cook in the kitchens asked if he would like a full-time chef back home and tried to persuade Chirag to hire him! If only they knew how an average Londoners’ wage is completely diminished by the end of the month thanks to extortionate rent, food shopping and bills. Though I must say I am particularly impressed with how well Chirag has settled in here, though I didn’t doubt it for a second. Every corner we pass, a local friend waves to him or calls him over. He haggles with the rickshaw drivers in Hindi, and when they see me looking all Westernised and try to charge extra he argues with them with an impatience that makes me proud and giggle at the same time. This is the same Chirag that I had to force to haggle in Southall when shopping for an outfit for an Indian party, and would still come out of the shop having paid a fiver extra than Recommended Retail Price!

   Having visited India recently, I’m already aware that we are more likely to be regarded as tourists, as we don’t look like your average native despite our Indian heritage. It seems to cause some confusion and curiosity from the locals, which is the cause of all the staring, which I no longer deem as impolite especially when someone gets talking to us and asks a thousand questions, utterly rapt by our answers and eager to learn more. In fact I just got interrupted this very moment by two young female cleaners in colourful saris and wide smiles, that have brought along the receptionist, who speaks perfect English, so that they can converse with me and ask me questions as my Hindi isn’t the best. They’ve asked to see photos of my life in London, and the pretty dresses I wear. They’ve asked why I have a big, pink inflatable ball in my room, which prompts me to show them a few abs exercises and give them a few tips on getting fit. Both of them compliment me on my small frame, big eyes and clear complexion, asking if I know about the Miss India fashion competition… bless their cotton saris! I find out that they are both two years younger than me, married for ten years (at the tender age of sixteen) and have two children under nine years old. They then point to their bellies, which look so cute and round on their slight frames, and ask me if I can help them be rid of their protruding tums. It makes me both excited and impatient to sharpen up my Hindi and Gujarati language skills, which shouldn’t take too long being out here, so I can converse with the locals more.

One of the outfits that Chirag chose, matched with my own belt and leggings

   After lunch, Chirag insists that we visit ‘Big Bazaar’, the local clothes shop, or as we call it ‘Big Buzzr’ (simper) in order to buy a few kurtas and traditional clothes so that I don’t stick out and attract more stares than usual. Anything to get me into Indian clothes, that boy! Of course I’m reluctant, but I do see his point; I’m wearing the most modest items of clothing in my suitcase, a floor-length green maxi-skirt with plenty of material and a white shirt buttoned up to my neck – I think I underestimated just how modest one must be in a village despite the warm weather – and I still stick out like a sore thumb. Chirag says his fellow college buddies all wear the local garms and don’t get as much attention anymore despite being English white, but I’m sure it is just because I’m a new face and they’ll get bored of me soon enough. I reckon Chirag has more fun than me during the shopping trip, pointing out all the colourful kurtas that came in my size, which weren’t many. I purchase two kurta tops, which I personally think make me look like a frumpy turd, but when in Rome… will have to jazz up with a waist belt and coloured leggings that I have in my suitcase. And did wearing the local garments help…? Of course not! I even matched them with bangles, rings I’d bought in India and a bindi on my forehead. Maybe if I tried oiling my hair into two plaits either side of my ears with a middle-parting, and no make-up whatsoever… but alas, vanity. We both agree, just because we are in a tiny village in the South of India where we’ve practically seen everything it has to offer in one afternoon, that is no excuse not to look good! However I must admit, wearing the local clothes has given me a sense of freedom to roam around the campus as I please, and though people still ask where I’m from and can tell I’m different, I personally feel a lot more comfortable – if not bloody boiling and sweaty from covering up so much – than if I was wearing my London outfits.

   We finish off the evening with a celebratory dinner, seven of us in total (Chirag’s uni friends joined in, which I thoroughly enjoyed despite the fact that I was about to slip into a coma after being awake almost 24 hours… but of course chatter-box is me). A delicious mutton biriyani later (though that’s the last bit of meat I’m having for a while, it’s a bit too heavy) followed by a couple voddies, we head out, a little light-headed, for Chirag and his lovely friend Susie’s post-dinner ritual of sweet paan from the street vendor next door and sweet boiled milk smuggled from the campus kitchens.

   All in all, a delightful first day and a great beginning to this adventure.