A cacophony of noises and smells (and being awfully careful about what I eat and drink) is how it begins for me in Bengaluru, India. First challenge was this morning when I ventured out into the heat and dust in this city of 10.4 million. How to cross the road with multiple lanes, multiple roads, multiple cars and motorbikes, multiple toots and whistle shrieks – pedestrians GET OUT OF THE WAY! Made it into Cubbon Park, eventually, along a footpath which seemed to have suffered from a mini earthquake. But more of this later.
Starved of The Guardian this morning I reverted to The Hindu (Bengaluru City Edition). Yes! – nothing about Brexit or repeal the eighth. Much more interesting is an article, on the front page, about a Congress worker whose hand was chopped off by a machete wielding chap (known as Lokesh). Most reassuring to read that the local police had formed a team "to nab Lokesh, who has absconded."
Justin Trudeau’s visit to India was top news in all the papers. On TV this was dealt with far more savagely last night. On one channel I picked up, the various Indian outfits in which the Trudeau family had posed for photo shoots were noted as all being a bit over the top. At one event JT was even wearing a formal Indian wedding coat: "Is he getting married?" the commentator quipped. Meanwhile Modi (India’s prime minister) was avoiding the Canadian première due to a cock up by the Canadian High Commision who had invited a convicted terrorist and former member of the banned International Sikh Youth Federation to their reception for Trudeau in Mumbai. Oh dear.
But great reading inside The Hindu. A thought provoking article by Shiv Visvanathan - Talk like a South Asian elaborates on the importance of India’s relationship with its neighbouring countries to the South East - and the ongoing problem of its default reactions to everything coming out of Pakistan and China. He is a member of a group called the Compost Heap – activists and academics exploring alternative imaginations and futures. Respect. Must join.
The editorial "Saving Lives" cited worrying statistics about India’s high newborn mortality rate and what should be done to improve them. Odd in the context of a large billboard sign just outside our hotel stating: “Stop Female Foeticide” and the huge neon lit sign for the “Prolife Hospital” we saw on the way in from the airport.
At first the sub continent feels a bit like Britain in the 1950s. Driving on the left. English. Tea. Sir. Madam. But India seeps through the imperial veneer, ineluctably, ephemerally. In the West we nod and shake our heads – yes and no; but here in India there is a another dimension to that body language – a gentle head movement of the ear towards the shoulder and over to the opposite shoulder, and back again. It seems to indicate “I understand”, “I acquiesce”, “I hear you” when being told something. Active listening, so present; I am lessened by my monkey brain thinking ahead, worrying back, comparing, contrasting, agitating, looping. Despite the madness of rampaging urban development in this country, the crazy traffic, and a general feeling of chaos, there is a stillness in the people, a calmness, an acceptance.
In front of the High Court of Karnataka (in Cubbon Park) a tour guide with a group of young men, all wearing the same wine coloured t-shirts, asks us where we are from. "Ah. James Bond is from Ireland", he says confidently when we tell him our nationality; and then he requests a selfie with my husband (who was wearing sunglasses a bit like the ones Daniel Craig wears in Casino Royale. (I'm telling him this was the best case of mistaken identity he is ever going to get.)
Ayurvedic head massage tomorrow. Am hopeful.
23 February 2018, Bengaluru, India
Starved of The Guardian this morning I reverted to The Hindu (Bengaluru City Edition). Yes! – nothing about Brexit or repeal the eighth. Much more interesting is an article, on the front page, about a Congress worker whose hand was chopped off by a machete wielding chap (known as Lokesh). Most reassuring to read that the local police had formed a team "to nab Lokesh, who has absconded."
Justin Trudeau’s visit to India was top news in all the papers. On TV this was dealt with far more savagely last night. On one channel I picked up, the various Indian outfits in which the Trudeau family had posed for photo shoots were noted as all being a bit over the top. At one event JT was even wearing a formal Indian wedding coat: "Is he getting married?" the commentator quipped. Meanwhile Modi (India’s prime minister) was avoiding the Canadian première due to a cock up by the Canadian High Commision who had invited a convicted terrorist and former member of the banned International Sikh Youth Federation to their reception for Trudeau in Mumbai. Oh dear.
But great reading inside The Hindu. A thought provoking article by Shiv Visvanathan - Talk like a South Asian elaborates on the importance of India’s relationship with its neighbouring countries to the South East - and the ongoing problem of its default reactions to everything coming out of Pakistan and China. He is a member of a group called the Compost Heap – activists and academics exploring alternative imaginations and futures. Respect. Must join.
The editorial "Saving Lives" cited worrying statistics about India’s high newborn mortality rate and what should be done to improve them. Odd in the context of a large billboard sign just outside our hotel stating: “Stop Female Foeticide” and the huge neon lit sign for the “Prolife Hospital” we saw on the way in from the airport.
At first the sub continent feels a bit like Britain in the 1950s. Driving on the left. English. Tea. Sir. Madam. But India seeps through the imperial veneer, ineluctably, ephemerally. In the West we nod and shake our heads – yes and no; but here in India there is a another dimension to that body language – a gentle head movement of the ear towards the shoulder and over to the opposite shoulder, and back again. It seems to indicate “I understand”, “I acquiesce”, “I hear you” when being told something. Active listening, so present; I am lessened by my monkey brain thinking ahead, worrying back, comparing, contrasting, agitating, looping. Despite the madness of rampaging urban development in this country, the crazy traffic, and a general feeling of chaos, there is a stillness in the people, a calmness, an acceptance.
In front of the High Court of Karnataka (in Cubbon Park) a tour guide with a group of young men, all wearing the same wine coloured t-shirts, asks us where we are from. "Ah. James Bond is from Ireland", he says confidently when we tell him our nationality; and then he requests a selfie with my husband (who was wearing sunglasses a bit like the ones Daniel Craig wears in Casino Royale. (I'm telling him this was the best case of mistaken identity he is ever going to get.)
Ayurvedic head massage tomorrow. Am hopeful.
23 February 2018, Bengaluru, India
