It's a miracle. At the very least, life is a series of mini-miracles.
I have reached way back into the recesses of my brain and in a blinding flash of necessity, the password to resurrect this blog has appeared to motivate my twitchy fingers.
After many years, here we are again. Some of us at least. My family and perhaps a few mates, but that is enough. I had forgotten how this country demands to be documented. Forgotten the extent to which it lacerates your emotions, pushing and pulling you to extremes. Despite requests from nearest and dearest, even the excitement of re-reading my last India experience via my posts before I left, I had decided not to blog this time. The universe has conspired to laugh in the face of this decision. Silly Laura, do as you're told. Or the final words of my friend, that have been resounding in my head since I left, as she dropped me off a few short hours before my 3:30am taxi on my final night in Oz, "Work harder"! That was her response when I told her that I'd be far too busy to keep a blog this time. Such sloth!
The power points in my dusty little guest house (Janpath) refuse to charge my laptop. I seem to have short circuited them in fact, as now the TV refuses to work (not a problem really as I don't understand a word of Hindi).; Though inexplicably one located in the bathroom does work, but the moisture in there is intense, so only my local mobile is allowed into that drippy cave.
With no other outlet for my whirring mind but scribbling in notebooks, I have returned to the internet cafe where Suress has demanded my passport despite 2 visits here yesterday.
A quick recap to when I had 36 blissful hours in Sydney before my neverending flight to Delhi via Dubai. Thank you to all my gorgeous mates who showed up to The Hollywood to wish me well on my travels. But above all bless you Suzannah for having me to stay and sharing your adventures and enthusiasm with me, it was just what I needed before I flew. All of it was nourishing, the swim at Bondi with Kylee and Harmony (what a little kook) and the walk afterwards to Bronte followed by another float in the healing ocean. Jean Pierre's magic hands (a massage!), the meetings I squeezed in and above all the daggy tunes at my fave pub in Syd with so many lovely friends.
Despite ticking off a million lists and whirling about like a dervish before I left Oz - totally manic in Melbs and apologies to those I couldn't say goodbye in person to - I neglected to check in online. What a doofus. It completely slipped my mind, despite the fact that I've done it for pretty much every single flight I've taken in the last decade (well most!). So, you can imagine my delight when I bagged an aisle seat next to two young mothers with their squealing babies.
That's not fair, one baby Zia only cried at the very end and every time she woke up, she smiled. Her mother is Libyan and has been studying in Sydney. They're to meet her family in Dubai and when I asked if they had kept safe during the conflict, she recounted a harrowing story of how her younger brother had been shot twice in the hand when he tried to stop a thief from stealing his new car. He had just been given it by his father for completing his studies and his older brother had to stand by helplessly and watch the shooting. Poor Rasha broke down in tears as she told me about it, her little brother has spent 3 months in Germany having operations and the hand is still no good. Her older brother has nightmares.
Right next to me, was Marwa from Syria and her daughter Janna. She didn't speak enough English to tell me her story, but when she said she was flying to Egypt to see her family and then looked away, I could feel her immense pain. Both mothers were taking their children to meet their families for the first time. Rasha wants to stay in Australia and do a Masters in Public Health but she isn't sure if she'll be allowed to remain. She feels ripped apart by her desire to live in Oz and give Zia a safe upbringing, while her family are stuck in Libya living a sort of hellish existence, one that I can't quite fathom.
The warmth of these women outweighed their pain, but I arrived in Delhi feeling heavy hearted and my grotty guest house suddenly seemed like heaven. I had a freezing cold shower, drank delicious chai and soon crashed into a confused dreamscape.
It was raining at 3am when I jolted awake, wondering where the hell I was. I boshed half a sleeping pill and thanked my beautiful Mum for her generosity. Luckily, I was soon asleep again. It was still raining when I awoke and I cursed my stupid choice of shoes, as I leapt over puddles in search of breakfast.
Luckily the best dhosas in Delhi are a few minutes from my door. I ripped the coconut rasa dhosa to pieces with my right hand and gulped fresh watermelon juice with my left. Each bite was more delicious than the last as I dipped and re-dipped the luscious concoction (a sort of bread that is light and thin and infused with coconut, with a smooth potato filling in the centre) into sambal, vegetable, green and coconut sauces again and again. After some time, I realised that about six waiters were lined up watching me.
Oh the eyes that are constantly watching you here, mostly male, they are so dark, broody and unnerving. With recent events in Delhi that I don't need to recount, I am particularly on guard (and yes, I have a travel alarm in my bag - Xmas gift from my parents) though I was nervy my first day, the only situation worthy of note arose when a bunch of school boys passed me. I am staying near Connaught Place and for those of you who've never been, it's very central and busy, made up of a series of circles divided into lettered blocks. I was racing manically between blocks N and M trying to get myself an umbrella, a local mobile phone (four different stores) and some more socks, when a young boy who couldn't have been more than 11 brushed my butt with his arm. 11 years old!!!!!!
I stopped cold as he and his friends walked on, a gaggle of about ten, without a single hair on any of their faces. I could see the culprit trying to nonchalantly swing his arms around, as though it had been a casual mistake but while his friends turned around and looked at me, laughing, he guiltily kept his straight ahead and his back to me. I stared at them and motioned that I'd felt it and that I knew it was him. He refused to turn around and walked on, while his friends whispered and laughed. I have to admit that it was not a slap or a pinch (which so often happened in Italy) but there was something disgusting about a boy that young, feeling it was his right to touch a grown up foreigner that way, particularly with all the "soul searching" that's going on in this city right now about women and sexual harassment. I was shocked. I felt sick and it has remained with me, just a tiny moment amongst many other examples of warm welcomes to this city, that I will not forget.
After my various boring missions, which were satisfyingly successful, though protracted and each a minor miracle when achieved, I made my way to Rajiv Chowk Metro station.
Perhaps I never got on a local train last time I was here, but I have never travelled on a local subway that has men with machine guns standing bored behind stacked sacks, metal detectors and body searches. It wasn't much fun having to place myself in a carriage with hundreds of eyes pointed straight at me, fingers often doing the same - but I was proud when I reached Hauz Khas and jumped in my first tuk tuk When I made it to the Teamwork office, I was excited to see everyone again and was given so many hugs and kisses from the exhausted looking team.
Seems I'm going to be emcee of the Google Mughal Tent and there are some incredible authors that I'll be hosting. What a huge honour. Directly after this, I'm going to jump back on the Jaipur Literature Festival site and really explore each one. It was slightly daunting to discover that since I last worked there in 2009, the audience has increased from approximately 5,000 people to over 100,000!!! I am going to have a team of four volunteers working for me, while back then I had only one. Mein godt!
How I wish my gorgeous friend Nichole was here to experience this all with me again. Back in the day, she ran the music stage, which has been moved off site to Clark's Hotel and apparently the Diggi Palace has expanded and reclaimed adjoining real estate, specifically so that it can retain the Festival on its grounds. Everyone has to register now, while previously attendees just wandered in. The catalyst was Salman Rushie's death threats last year, coupled with Oprah Winfrey's visit and a host of celebrated authors. This year, we have Sebastian Faulks, Anish Kapoor, Patrick French and so many more (240 in total) including an old friend from New York Andrew Solomon. I'm sure I'm forgetting all sorts of incredible names to mention but I promise to post here when possible during the Festival.
I met a Malaysian architect who lives in Wellington, NZ, last night who was also struggling with Airtel (the Telstra of India) and it was lovely to connect with a friendly, gentle male amidst the fray. Often it's not menace, but curiosity that prompts the constant stares but it's impossible to feel anything but mistrust. Though when you enter a conversation one-on-one, like the umbrella man who asked me if I lived in Delhi, you are reminded that there is so much good here. "You have the face of someone who lives here Madam. It is wonderful that you have returned to India. I hope you have a wonderful stay in my country."
In a few hours, I'm off to visit William Dalrymple for lunch. You may recall that he is the reason I first worked at the Festival and it was his almost immediate response to my email less than 2 weeks ago that propelled me to return to India. To just book a ticket and come back, to let go of all fears and logic and just get on that plane. So here I am.
It's heaven and hell, it's wonderful and terrifying but above all, I feel utterly alive and kicking. Plus the sun has just come out and is beckoning me.
Warm Delhi love.
Lx
I have reached way back into the recesses of my brain and in a blinding flash of necessity, the password to resurrect this blog has appeared to motivate my twitchy fingers.
After many years, here we are again. Some of us at least. My family and perhaps a few mates, but that is enough. I had forgotten how this country demands to be documented. Forgotten the extent to which it lacerates your emotions, pushing and pulling you to extremes. Despite requests from nearest and dearest, even the excitement of re-reading my last India experience via my posts before I left, I had decided not to blog this time. The universe has conspired to laugh in the face of this decision. Silly Laura, do as you're told. Or the final words of my friend, that have been resounding in my head since I left, as she dropped me off a few short hours before my 3:30am taxi on my final night in Oz, "Work harder"! That was her response when I told her that I'd be far too busy to keep a blog this time. Such sloth!
The power points in my dusty little guest house (Janpath) refuse to charge my laptop. I seem to have short circuited them in fact, as now the TV refuses to work (not a problem really as I don't understand a word of Hindi).; Though inexplicably one located in the bathroom does work, but the moisture in there is intense, so only my local mobile is allowed into that drippy cave.
With no other outlet for my whirring mind but scribbling in notebooks, I have returned to the internet cafe where Suress has demanded my passport despite 2 visits here yesterday.
A quick recap to when I had 36 blissful hours in Sydney before my neverending flight to Delhi via Dubai. Thank you to all my gorgeous mates who showed up to The Hollywood to wish me well on my travels. But above all bless you Suzannah for having me to stay and sharing your adventures and enthusiasm with me, it was just what I needed before I flew. All of it was nourishing, the swim at Bondi with Kylee and Harmony (what a little kook) and the walk afterwards to Bronte followed by another float in the healing ocean. Jean Pierre's magic hands (a massage!), the meetings I squeezed in and above all the daggy tunes at my fave pub in Syd with so many lovely friends.
Despite ticking off a million lists and whirling about like a dervish before I left Oz - totally manic in Melbs and apologies to those I couldn't say goodbye in person to - I neglected to check in online. What a doofus. It completely slipped my mind, despite the fact that I've done it for pretty much every single flight I've taken in the last decade (well most!). So, you can imagine my delight when I bagged an aisle seat next to two young mothers with their squealing babies.
That's not fair, one baby Zia only cried at the very end and every time she woke up, she smiled. Her mother is Libyan and has been studying in Sydney. They're to meet her family in Dubai and when I asked if they had kept safe during the conflict, she recounted a harrowing story of how her younger brother had been shot twice in the hand when he tried to stop a thief from stealing his new car. He had just been given it by his father for completing his studies and his older brother had to stand by helplessly and watch the shooting. Poor Rasha broke down in tears as she told me about it, her little brother has spent 3 months in Germany having operations and the hand is still no good. Her older brother has nightmares.
Right next to me, was Marwa from Syria and her daughter Janna. She didn't speak enough English to tell me her story, but when she said she was flying to Egypt to see her family and then looked away, I could feel her immense pain. Both mothers were taking their children to meet their families for the first time. Rasha wants to stay in Australia and do a Masters in Public Health but she isn't sure if she'll be allowed to remain. She feels ripped apart by her desire to live in Oz and give Zia a safe upbringing, while her family are stuck in Libya living a sort of hellish existence, one that I can't quite fathom.
The warmth of these women outweighed their pain, but I arrived in Delhi feeling heavy hearted and my grotty guest house suddenly seemed like heaven. I had a freezing cold shower, drank delicious chai and soon crashed into a confused dreamscape.
It was raining at 3am when I jolted awake, wondering where the hell I was. I boshed half a sleeping pill and thanked my beautiful Mum for her generosity. Luckily, I was soon asleep again. It was still raining when I awoke and I cursed my stupid choice of shoes, as I leapt over puddles in search of breakfast.
Luckily the best dhosas in Delhi are a few minutes from my door. I ripped the coconut rasa dhosa to pieces with my right hand and gulped fresh watermelon juice with my left. Each bite was more delicious than the last as I dipped and re-dipped the luscious concoction (a sort of bread that is light and thin and infused with coconut, with a smooth potato filling in the centre) into sambal, vegetable, green and coconut sauces again and again. After some time, I realised that about six waiters were lined up watching me.
Oh the eyes that are constantly watching you here, mostly male, they are so dark, broody and unnerving. With recent events in Delhi that I don't need to recount, I am particularly on guard (and yes, I have a travel alarm in my bag - Xmas gift from my parents) though I was nervy my first day, the only situation worthy of note arose when a bunch of school boys passed me. I am staying near Connaught Place and for those of you who've never been, it's very central and busy, made up of a series of circles divided into lettered blocks. I was racing manically between blocks N and M trying to get myself an umbrella, a local mobile phone (four different stores) and some more socks, when a young boy who couldn't have been more than 11 brushed my butt with his arm. 11 years old!!!!!!
I stopped cold as he and his friends walked on, a gaggle of about ten, without a single hair on any of their faces. I could see the culprit trying to nonchalantly swing his arms around, as though it had been a casual mistake but while his friends turned around and looked at me, laughing, he guiltily kept his straight ahead and his back to me. I stared at them and motioned that I'd felt it and that I knew it was him. He refused to turn around and walked on, while his friends whispered and laughed. I have to admit that it was not a slap or a pinch (which so often happened in Italy) but there was something disgusting about a boy that young, feeling it was his right to touch a grown up foreigner that way, particularly with all the "soul searching" that's going on in this city right now about women and sexual harassment. I was shocked. I felt sick and it has remained with me, just a tiny moment amongst many other examples of warm welcomes to this city, that I will not forget.
After my various boring missions, which were satisfyingly successful, though protracted and each a minor miracle when achieved, I made my way to Rajiv Chowk Metro station.
Perhaps I never got on a local train last time I was here, but I have never travelled on a local subway that has men with machine guns standing bored behind stacked sacks, metal detectors and body searches. It wasn't much fun having to place myself in a carriage with hundreds of eyes pointed straight at me, fingers often doing the same - but I was proud when I reached Hauz Khas and jumped in my first tuk tuk When I made it to the Teamwork office, I was excited to see everyone again and was given so many hugs and kisses from the exhausted looking team.
Seems I'm going to be emcee of the Google Mughal Tent and there are some incredible authors that I'll be hosting. What a huge honour. Directly after this, I'm going to jump back on the Jaipur Literature Festival site and really explore each one. It was slightly daunting to discover that since I last worked there in 2009, the audience has increased from approximately 5,000 people to over 100,000!!! I am going to have a team of four volunteers working for me, while back then I had only one. Mein godt!
How I wish my gorgeous friend Nichole was here to experience this all with me again. Back in the day, she ran the music stage, which has been moved off site to Clark's Hotel and apparently the Diggi Palace has expanded and reclaimed adjoining real estate, specifically so that it can retain the Festival on its grounds. Everyone has to register now, while previously attendees just wandered in. The catalyst was Salman Rushie's death threats last year, coupled with Oprah Winfrey's visit and a host of celebrated authors. This year, we have Sebastian Faulks, Anish Kapoor, Patrick French and so many more (240 in total) including an old friend from New York Andrew Solomon. I'm sure I'm forgetting all sorts of incredible names to mention but I promise to post here when possible during the Festival.
I met a Malaysian architect who lives in Wellington, NZ, last night who was also struggling with Airtel (the Telstra of India) and it was lovely to connect with a friendly, gentle male amidst the fray. Often it's not menace, but curiosity that prompts the constant stares but it's impossible to feel anything but mistrust. Though when you enter a conversation one-on-one, like the umbrella man who asked me if I lived in Delhi, you are reminded that there is so much good here. "You have the face of someone who lives here Madam. It is wonderful that you have returned to India. I hope you have a wonderful stay in my country."
In a few hours, I'm off to visit William Dalrymple for lunch. You may recall that he is the reason I first worked at the Festival and it was his almost immediate response to my email less than 2 weeks ago that propelled me to return to India. To just book a ticket and come back, to let go of all fears and logic and just get on that plane. So here I am.
It's heaven and hell, it's wonderful and terrifying but above all, I feel utterly alive and kicking. Plus the sun has just come out and is beckoning me.
Warm Delhi love.
Lx
1 comment:
Namaste Laura बहुत सारा प्यार,
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