Tuesday, October 30
Monday, October 29
Indian Railways
Travelling by train in India is one of the greatest things I've experienced till now. You get to the train and you find your names printed on a sheet stuck to the door of your carriage. the spellings are just poetic. In the train there is no second when you get bored and loose the poetic touch of travelling across the sub-continent. You can get a chai, food of any kind, any gadget (inclusive of BOOKS sold by a blind man walking up and down the train) any time, day and night. and people offer you food and chat, curious of where do you belong and who you are (rather, of what the name of all your relatives till the third generation are). To get a ticket you get to queue sometimes for 2 hours. Long indeed, but nothing new for anybody who has tried to travel by train in Italy. And you can always go to a travel agent who will charge you very little to do everything for you.
Yet the most incredible bit was at the train station, that very long queue. For example there is a counter only for ladies and people with "special needs", not to get harassed or mistreated. So that they can fight among themselves in the priority queue. Moreover, on top of that counter you have an interesting list of categories of people entitled to have a discount on train fares...among them I would like to highlight a pair of quite extraordinary ones I'm sure you can only find in India, carved into a marble board as is the case of my picture below:
- full discount for "widow of police man killed in action against terrorists and extremists"
- full discount for "unemployed youth up to the age of 35 travelling for attending interviews for jobs (in central government only)"
- 75% for "haemophilia patients"
- full discount for "non infectious leprosy patiens"
etc etc...
up to you to decide if this is hilarious, fair, or simply & uniquely indian!
Thursday, October 25
Gwalior and its Rajput fort
Gwalior is a city in the north of Madhya Pradesh, 4 hours by express train from Delhi. As soon as you get out of Delhi, in fact, many things change: first, rythm. nothing to do with busy giant Delhi. everything flows calmly, no one person hurries. then pollution, you start feeling your lungs are born anew, your hands don't get dirty as fast, and your socks don't leave a mark between the white of my skin and the black of my...skin, though after being outside a little while in Delhi.
But there much more about Gwalior. Both historical records and popular tales cast into the commonn imagery the thrilling story of the Rani of Jhansi, the frearless widow of the late Maharaja of Jhansi. Apparently, she was an forerunner in many respects, among which her views of female empowerment. For sure, she was the bravest of fighters against the British Raj. She died fighting against the British forces on the 17 of June 1858 because her horse and her bravery. Her proper horse being deadly wounded, she rode a less trained one and continued fighting with her adoptive son tied to her back. Surrounded by british guards on the hedge of a cliff, her young horse not being trained enough to cross to the other side and herself preferring death to captivity, there she jumped and died.
But there much more about Gwalior. Both historical records and popular tales cast into the commonn imagery the thrilling story of the Rani of Jhansi, the frearless widow of the late Maharaja of Jhansi. Apparently, she was an forerunner in many respects, among which her views of female empowerment. For sure, she was the bravest of fighters against the British Raj. She died fighting against the British forces on the 17 of June 1858 because her horse and her bravery. Her proper horse being deadly wounded, she rode a less trained one and continued fighting with her adoptive son tied to her back. Surrounded by british guards on the hedge of a cliff, her young horse not being trained enough to cross to the other side and herself preferring death to captivity, there she jumped and died.
Friday, October 19
Now I live in a posh area of Delhi, on the second floor of a three-storey block owned by a lady in her late sixties. she's the widow of an Indian army officer and she's slightly obsessed with money and Ganesha, the sweet-gourmand elephant god. It's a very big apartment with a huge terrace on top. From there we have a view on our neighbourhood...as usual for India, an indefinite twine of buildings, water tanks, antennas...and terrace gardens. here each rich family (part of that 5% of India, but still not the very rich ones) builds a family house/block. Several floors host the different generations of the family, the elderly folks occupying the ground floor. Few maids usually work there all day, drivers park and get the several cars out as soon it is needed. Normally a security person sits, rather annoyed, on a chair in the front of the gate. They seldom look very scaring or nasty, or even just able to stop anyone trying to get in. On the contrary, they open the door for you.
When children go to study and live abroad, the apartments and rooms are rented, as in my case. Still, it keeps being the family house, that is you have to become part of the family. Our landlady would tell my flatmates to consider her like their mother (she only knows I am the cousin who stays over sometimes a week, but this a longer story), she gave us sweets for Diwali, the Indian Christmas if you like (sweet were both Indian and western patisserie, in fact she feared we wouldn't like to much Indian stuff), she wants to get Indian clothes for us, she said we can stay at her daughter's place in London and at her son's place in the US. She gave us silver coins with Ganesha on it. All this is not only about being kind (she rarely is), it's something more. I feel she has to build some kind of blessed relationship with us in order to feel less lonely and all right with rules of hospitality and house sharing. We are ritually part of the family, and so is the Indian girl living on the first floor, the one who smiles beautifully, wears mini skirts and lives on her own.
I like to see from the terrace the few beautiful domes of sultans' tombs from the Lodhi period lost in the middle of the South Delhi, from back in the beginning of last millennium, the sky in the night is somehow orange and at 6:30 every morning I get 10 minutes of drums and bells madness to wake me up. I haven't seen any temple very close-by, it may be a frenzied neighbour. And then start the shouting of the sellers in the street.
I don't know how all this holds together, but it does. And you never get bored, I can assure you.
When children go to study and live abroad, the apartments and rooms are rented, as in my case. Still, it keeps being the family house, that is you have to become part of the family. Our landlady would tell my flatmates to consider her like their mother (she only knows I am the cousin who stays over sometimes a week, but this a longer story), she gave us sweets for Diwali, the Indian Christmas if you like (sweet were both Indian and western patisserie, in fact she feared we wouldn't like to much Indian stuff), she wants to get Indian clothes for us, she said we can stay at her daughter's place in London and at her son's place in the US. She gave us silver coins with Ganesha on it. All this is not only about being kind (she rarely is), it's something more. I feel she has to build some kind of blessed relationship with us in order to feel less lonely and all right with rules of hospitality and house sharing. We are ritually part of the family, and so is the Indian girl living on the first floor, the one who smiles beautifully, wears mini skirts and lives on her own.
I like to see from the terrace the few beautiful domes of sultans' tombs from the Lodhi period lost in the middle of the South Delhi, from back in the beginning of last millennium, the sky in the night is somehow orange and at 6:30 every morning I get 10 minutes of drums and bells madness to wake me up. I haven't seen any temple very close-by, it may be a frenzied neighbour. And then start the shouting of the sellers in the street.
I don't know how all this holds together, but it does. And you never get bored, I can assure you.
Sunday, October 7
daily life
The beauty of Taj Mahal doesn’t need any word to be understood. There might be notions about it you can get only by studying its history or its architectural features. Though, the naïve amazement and deep, all-encompassing peace comes with no instruction booklet. The only thing I will add is how that vision was close to my idea of paradise...I swear, very close.
I want to tell you few things about daily life in Delhi. Few of those things I come across daily, those things, this time, I get easily used to.
The ironing stalls, for example. Wherever you are (and whoever you are) you will need to get things ironed. Even more since you usually wash them by hand. I, use to go down the street, 10 meters outside the gate of my block. (A friend of mine…she uses to throw everything from the balcony, down three floors to the man grabbing everything). There is a kind of wooden table on the side of the road, it stands between a pole well charged with cables and a tree. There is also a bed on the side of the table, where to put the ready stuff, each pile wrapped in a colourful cloth, and where people also sit and chat. The table is covered with flat clothes which work as the base. At first, you normally cannot avoid staring at the iron: exactly what I first saw in some museum of old customs sometime and somewhere back home: li-te-ral-ly an iron, with a solid-looking wooden handle. You understand it better when you pass by at sunset and see the burning red of the coal in the dark. You normally find men doing this job, sometimes also women, often couples making of it their family business. They charge 2 rupees a piece (4 eurocents). Some are more skilled that others, and, of course, you don’t abandon you work clothes in the hands of the first one you find. You try a few out and establish your special service relationship with them and their corner.
The same is true for “chai” corners, Indian tea seller (both the ‘seller’ and the ‘tea’ are very Indian I mean. I guess you won’t find anything like this anywhere else in the world). The best are for sure the ones you find on the street. Maybe you don’t fell comfortable with eating food prepared by the same person on the same dusty and dirty roadside, but you trust her or his chai much more easily.
There’s a lady who prepares chai just in front of where I catch an auto-rickshaw every morning. It’s becoming my breakfast hotspot just before 8:30. She does it beautifully and mechanically, with the inner elegance a woman wearing a saree does everything as if it were the most confortable dress cobination in the world. Though, if I published a picture of her spot you wouldn’t be very enthusiatic about it. When she’s not there it looks just as few black stones thrown on the side of the pavement. It’s excellent anyway, you taste the flavour of frshly crushed cardamom, milk, tea and some other spices sometimes. It’s four rupees, as much as ironing two shirts, or doing 1 Km by rickshaw, or even half an hour of internet, or half drop of most pretentious ‘caffe’ americano’ they sell at the bar of the High Commission of Wonderlands.
I still don’t get used to Wonderland standards, but I like the Chai lady and the iron man. Maybe the truth it’s just I need them almost every week, if not everyday…is that all about a service society like this one??
I shall have a chai while thinking about it.
I want to tell you few things about daily life in Delhi. Few of those things I come across daily, those things, this time, I get easily used to.
The ironing stalls, for example. Wherever you are (and whoever you are) you will need to get things ironed. Even more since you usually wash them by hand. I, use to go down the street, 10 meters outside the gate of my block. (A friend of mine…she uses to throw everything from the balcony, down three floors to the man grabbing everything). There is a kind of wooden table on the side of the road, it stands between a pole well charged with cables and a tree. There is also a bed on the side of the table, where to put the ready stuff, each pile wrapped in a colourful cloth, and where people also sit and chat. The table is covered with flat clothes which work as the base. At first, you normally cannot avoid staring at the iron: exactly what I first saw in some museum of old customs sometime and somewhere back home: li-te-ral-ly an iron, with a solid-looking wooden handle. You understand it better when you pass by at sunset and see the burning red of the coal in the dark. You normally find men doing this job, sometimes also women, often couples making of it their family business. They charge 2 rupees a piece (4 eurocents). Some are more skilled that others, and, of course, you don’t abandon you work clothes in the hands of the first one you find. You try a few out and establish your special service relationship with them and their corner.
The same is true for “chai” corners, Indian tea seller (both the ‘seller’ and the ‘tea’ are very Indian I mean. I guess you won’t find anything like this anywhere else in the world). The best are for sure the ones you find on the street. Maybe you don’t fell comfortable with eating food prepared by the same person on the same dusty and dirty roadside, but you trust her or his chai much more easily.
There’s a lady who prepares chai just in front of where I catch an auto-rickshaw every morning. It’s becoming my breakfast hotspot just before 8:30. She does it beautifully and mechanically, with the inner elegance a woman wearing a saree does everything as if it were the most confortable dress cobination in the world. Though, if I published a picture of her spot you wouldn’t be very enthusiatic about it. When she’s not there it looks just as few black stones thrown on the side of the pavement. It’s excellent anyway, you taste the flavour of frshly crushed cardamom, milk, tea and some other spices sometimes. It’s four rupees, as much as ironing two shirts, or doing 1 Km by rickshaw, or even half an hour of internet, or half drop of most pretentious ‘caffe’ americano’ they sell at the bar of the High Commission of Wonderlands.
I still don’t get used to Wonderland standards, but I like the Chai lady and the iron man. Maybe the truth it’s just I need them almost every week, if not everyday…is that all about a service society like this one??
I shall have a chai while thinking about it.
Thursday, October 4
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