15 July 2008

Mr Weasel & Mr Innocent Motorbike Man

I’m in the back of a rickshaw. It’s late Tuesday evening and my belly is full of South Indies delights. It’s been raining and cool air is blasting down my neck. I pull up the collar on my jumper.

My driver is a shadow, sitting squat in front of me. This shadow is small, skinny, and a bit of a weasel. Mr Weasel thinks I’m a dumb tourist. He’s trying to rip me off by making a huge detour into random backwaters whilst assuring me we’re taking a “short-cut”. I’m not falling for the bait. I’m calm, relaxed, the epitome of serenity.

Yes, Mr Weasel you can play your games, but I will have the last laugh. My plan is to just ride along with Mr Weasel for as long as he likes. Then upon arrival at the guest house, I will make a wild dash inside, chuck Rs100 at him, and seeing whether he has the balls to follow me inside to demand the rest of his fare. So I pull out my book – Slaughter House Five – and get stuck in, ignoring Mr Weasel’s sight-seeing tactics.

But weasels are cunning creatures, and this one is onto my tricks. He corners an innocent motorbike and starts jabbering away at him. The man translates: “Where do you want to go? He wants to know if you want to take the short cut?”. Me: “He knows where I want to go. And he’s driving me all around town. Tell him direct or no money.” We carry on like this for 10 minutes, sitting on the side of the road, honking traffic speeding past us, splashing arcs of gray water from the puddles.

Mr Weasel gets the better of me. My blood boils, I froth at the mouth, and I prepare to grab Mr Weasel by the throat and throttle this treacherous wretch. I catch myself just in time, jump out of the damned rickshaw and set off up the road.

But now Mr Weasel wants his money. He scampers after me and grabs my arm. “Gimme 50, gimme 50!” he shouts. Mr Weasel is not worth 2 cents let alone 100. He’s half my height but still he stretches out his palm, ready to administer a flying slap. Bloody weasels! I pause and wonder whether I can really knock his head off his shoulders.

And then Mr Innocent Motorbike Man arrives. But he’s no longer Mr Innocent Motorbike Man. He’s now Mr Mounted Conflict de Conflicter, Bringer of Understanding and Peace Amongst Men. He quietly negotiates Mr Weasel’s surrender and extracts Rs 50 Rs 50 from me as a peace settlement.

Mr de Conflicter transforms himself into Mr Benevolent Transporter of Cheated Foreigners. We zoom along Bangalore backstreets and tree-lined boulevards. He instructs me in local ways of beating wily weasels. A full 35 minutes later we arrive at Cunnigham Road. Again, he morphs into Mr Humble refusing my offers to contribute some money towards petrol. “Pray for my family. That is all”. We shake hands, I thank him profusely again, and he slips off into the night.

06 July 2008

Agra

I could easily get lost self-gratifying hyperbole to describe my visit to the Taj Mahal (Day 2 of the parental tour). But, I'll save you the agony. Suffice to say that it firmly deserves to be on the list of "50 things to do before you die". If you thought you didn't need to visit. Change your mind. Plan your trip. Buy your ticket. Go.

But I do want to pause to reflect on something else that happened to us in Agra. We arrived off the 6.15am express train from New Delhi Station. The sky was dark, heavy, and sodden. Rain drenched everything, everyone, and me. We pushed through the surrounding crowd to the jovial hotel-man who led us, darting round puddles, to his jeep.

I was safely inside drying my face and wiping the mist from my glasses when I was startled by a dark face just beyond the window. He was so close I could see the red veins in the whites of his eyes. He wore a giant grin and stood happily under a tatty, leaking his umbrella. He motioned downwards towards his feet and then stretched his hand up towards me.

I looked down and drew breath, sharply. He feet were gigantic, gnarled and swollen. Six or seven times bigger than they should have been, they were truly elephant's feet. His toes stuck out at preposterous angles, each one the size of a thick frankfurter. The swelling extended up his leg and disappeared into his trousers. I tore my eyes away. I couldn't look. He tapped at the window. I stared ahead and we drove off.

Why? Why didn't I show more compassion? What would have it been to me to wind down my window and pass him a damp Rs 100 (~$2)? Was I too shocked? Or did I block it out and tell myself it wasn't my problem?

The odd thing about India is that you become anesthetized to so many shocking, disturbing things. It's partly about self-preservation - I need to mentally insulate myself to keep some peace of mind; if every such scene upset you, you'd be an emotional wreck in no time. But I think it's also because so often such interactions fill me with a pervading sense of helplessness. I feel (perhaps incorrectly) that by giving them money I strip them of their dignity and I admit that charity is their only hope. Surely there must be another way. But perhaps I should also recognise that in the meantime, no other assistance is coming their way.

05 July 2008

Delhi

I dashed up to Delhi for the weekend to meet up with the in-coming rentals. They were making a whistle stop tour through India to check up on me, make sure the runs were at an end, feed me up, pamper me - all the usual things that parents do exceptionally well and that I'm especially adept at denying I'm in need of until my head hits that comfy pillow...

In my mind, Delhi is the bustling capital of India; an organised chaos of auto rickshaws, Ministers, and history. That turned out to be rather far of the mark. Admittedly, I stuck mainly to the downtown area around Janpath, but I really wasn't prepared for the sweeping boulevards, grand government offices, and imposing monuments.

The British moved the capital of India to Delhi from Culcutta in 1911. They commissioned Edward Lutyens to design a capital fit to be the "jewel in the crown". Imperial ambitions know no reason and over the next 22 years, Luytens and an estimated 20,000 workers constructed New Delhi. He was an ambitious planner with an imposing vision, and when you stand at the Presidential Palace and squint into the distance at the Red Fort jutting out from behind the India Gate some 3km away, it's obvious that the result was iconic.

And then suddenly it clicked. Here was a vivid reminder of why British nostalgia for the "glory days" of the Empire runs so deep. This was the time when the British felt they were at their best. We were world class at something, standing tall, head and shoulders above the rest. We could plan grand cities, rule over thousands, bring "civilisation" to the world through trains, education, and the rule of law. Nevermind the fact that trade was often more akin to theft, and British rule subjugated millions to our concept of what was right.

So why all the nostalgia for what was, arguably, one of the darkest moments of our history? Perhaps it's because once you've fallen into the trap of believing that you're view of the world is inalienably right, then you lament your decine. Or maybe if you believe that once you've reached the pinnacle of your power, it's inevitably all downhill from there. America beware; nostalgia can quickly smother a nation's aspirations.