An Indian Wedding

If you ever want to feel like an B-list celeb*, go to Bojubeel, a small village on the outskirts of Varanasi. If, however you are brave enough to want to feel like an A-list celeb then go to a wedding in Bojubeel.

*small assumption that my readership is non-Indian.

The wedding was incredible, the pictures I took nowhere near capture the intensity and energy that ran through everyone from well in advance of the ceremony to late on Monday night when it ended.

My part started when my hand was hennad by Deepak's sister on Sunday as apparently it was 'traditional', (I later found out only traditional for the bride and bridegroom so at least I was being well included). The next afternoon I then had mascara applied, also for traditional purposes, apparently so traditional that Indians have now moved on and I was the only one wearing it. Then I had a quick haircut (the barber could only do mullets and it was a huge effort to get him to partially remove the clump of hair trailing down my neck). Then accepting that I was committed to a completely knob-ish appearance I donned the bright orange satin shirt I was offered and my Himachali Pradesh topi, although left the blue wayfarers behind.

Things were kicking off with the bridegroom's feet being beautifully henna'd by a tiny old lady who looked like she'd been doing that job for almost all of her 80+ years. Then 10 rupee notes were passed around the bridegroom's head and then dropped in a collection bag to bring good luck to the marriage. Then a set of drummers arrived and got a rhythm going, the women hitting the dance floor first, somewhat reluctantly followed by the men.

At this point I was offered a 'real drink' by one of numerous relatives. There's no way I can really describe him apart from supremely chilled. I think this picture shows all. 

I was slightly suspicious but jumped on the back of his Royal Enfield Bullet and we sped off to a seedy off-licence filled with all his mates who spoke varying amounts of English. They were all teachers or government officials but were all exceptionally cool and spent their evenings drinking, smoking and riding motorbikes, I was once again the centre of attention and was bombarded with questions about my life, not all fit to be published here. Then realising that I was probably missing out on the ceremony I persuaded them to take me back.

Here's me with my ridiculous look and one of the lads

The venue had been being prepared all day and a previously drab courtyard was now sparkling with white and orange drapings, buffet tables heaving under enormous quantities of food and the ornately flowered platform where the actual marriage was to happen. My entrance was one of those moments you normally only ever see in movies. Think the scene when the bad guy walks into the crowded bar and within a few seconds everyone has nudged their mate, the noise has died and a path opens up in front of you. I was like a rabbit in the headlights. Food hadn't been served yet, the ceremony hadn't started, there was nothing to distract them from the gora. I was then accosted from all sides asking for pictures, handshakes, my name, where I was from, the lot! One guy ran up to me, gave me a massive hug and then told me that I was the first foreigner he'd ever touched. It was fun for about 3 minutes and 23 seconds and then got too much. I escaped up to the balcony and watched the throng from above.

Because of all the attention I missed much of the ceremony but from what I could tell it involved the exchange of garlands of flowers, loads of photos and just general excitement.

 Then food was served, it was truly fantastic. There was so much of it, and it was delicious. Unfortunately everyone agreed with me so while there was enough to go around there was a huge crush to get to the buffet and goras got no special treatment this time. So I waited a bit and then sampled everything, especially enjoying the sweetened yoghurt that was liberally applied over everything. There were also mini chappattis, some meat dishes and then the usual rice, dal and beans. It seemed as though the whole town had been invited, even the local madman got an invite and a good meal.

  

After supper the dancing started and I was pushed into the middle of the circle and forced to dance for a good 5 minutes before deciding that the moves weren't flowing naturally and heading out into the street to drink whiskey with the Royal Enfield man. I chilled there for an hour before calling it a night at about half 12 (poor form I know) and hitting the sack. From what I could tell the dancing carried on until the early hours but was never as hectic as when I was in the middle of it. (You can call me 'life and soul of').

It was a bizarre experience, absolutely amazing but I'm not sure I got to see the traditional Indian wedding. I think my presence changed it too much for that. Despite this I loved it and would jump at the chance to go back to another, the energy, colour and pure excitement just made it all worth it.

Rory

He'll hate me for giving him a special entry but just so you all know who the 'Rory' who will be mentioned in future posts is I thought I'd give a little introduction. He was at Marlborough all the way through and I first knew him as the boy 'who wants to be Prime Minister' when I joined in Lower 6. He hasn't lost his political ambitions but he became a good friend at Marlborough, he captained me through my first season of rugby, I captained him through a season of hockey, we debated together, did CCF together, were prefects together and generally spent a fair amount of time together despite not taking any of the same classes. He was into his politics and economics and is now off to either KCL, Yale or Georgetown depending on who rejects him. He spent the beginning of his Gap Year working for an MP in Parliament and then travelling in South America.

Heres us at a 'civilised' black tie party.

Max

Varanasi Trip

So after my night on the platform I hung around Delhi for a bit and then jumped on my train to Varanasi. It was a fairly uncomfortable ride with my stomach giving me a bit of trouble for the first time but luckily it was just cramps, nothing messier.

Standard train meal

It was the one train I was hoping would be delayed but arrived precisely on time, at half 4 the next morning. So I sat on a bench (I am now well acquainted with Indian benches) until a more respectable hour, then hired a Tuk-tuk and went to go and watch sunrise over the Ganges. The tourist boats were already out in force and the funeral cremations had clearly been going on all night. Varanasi is famous mainly for religious reasons, it's a centre for Buddhism as well as for Hindis, they revere the Ganges and use it as a final resting place for the hundreds of bodies that are cremated each dayon its banks.

 

Then the tuk-tuk tuk me 20 minutes down the road to Deepak's village. It still being only half 6 I waited a bit and then tried to call him. When, two hours later I still hadn't got hold of him I started to realise how much of a leap of faith I'd taken. I was in a small village/town outside a completely unknown city in which I now had zero contacts. Some annoyance and a little anxiety began to creep in. No doubt Mummy and Daddy would have helped me organise the trip properly to avoid things like this. Luckily Deepak finally called at 9 and arranged to meet at the station. So back I went, met him on the platform, jumped on his bike and we headed home.

Deepak's family's house was buzzing when I arrived from a combination of three things. Firstly there were approximately 30 people staying in a house the size of Oaklands, then there was the upcoming marriage of Pawan, Deepak's elder brother, and thirdly there was some foreigner who had just rocked up on their doorstep and was planning to stay.

I dropped my bags and then was introduced to the mass of people who invaded the house. I very quickly began to feel like those bizarre circus acts from the 1930s that the owners of would show off to all their friends. Luckily Deepak must've realised this and whisked me off to Sarnath, a collection of Buddhist monuments about 10km away. They were clearly ancient but as I'd left my guide book behind and Deepak struggled to impart any info I wasn't too clued up about them but I'll be back to Varanasi with Rory at some point and will write properly then.

Back at the house I was offered a sleep which involved lying on a bed while numerous friends and relatives came in and asked me my name, age and where I was from. Although I felt bad for not being more active and sociable I was dead tired and it did get fairly repetitive, especially when some of them forgot and came in for round two. Finally I managed to get a bit of kip, but then woke to a bizarre scene in the main room. All 30 inhabitants plus some, were in the room, mostly elderly women, but despite it being lunchtime only seven or eight people were eating, all men, while the others watched. It was slightly awkward having to squeeze through them all to get to the loo, it was occupied so I was offered the shower. Making a mental note to wear flip-flops in the shower and aiming very carefully I passed that trial, then headed back to the throng and was promptly became the spectacle when a huge plate (the plate was cleverly constructed from over-laid leaves) of dal chaval (dal and rice) was put in front of me. The food was delicious but I couldn't help feeling slightly self-conscious.

 

That whole paragraph may seem irrelevant but it fairly accurately illustrates how I lived for those few days and how uncomfortable I often felt despite their generosity and friendliness. It was just all a bit weird for a lot of the time.

After lunch Deepak taught me how to ride a bike (so Dad you better keep an eye on yours). Unfortunately it doesn't look as cool in the pictures as it felt at the time, I considered donning the Wayferers to improve the look but didn't have time.

 

Then through my own incompetence and Indian queueing (or lack thereof) I spent two hours failing to get a return train ticket at the station before heading home for supper and sleep. About an hour after jumping into bed half a dozen people burst into the room with henna and drew a beautiful pattern on my hand (I didn't realise then but this is normally reserved only for the bride).

I then fell asleep alone and woke with three Indian men next to me, as one does. While very graceful when awake, grace is not an adjective best suited to describing Indian men asleep, as scratching armpits, talking and snoring exceptionally loudly are all favoured activities.

After finally buying a train ticket the next morning I was picked up by Deepak and one of his gangster friend, who most of the village was terrified of, and we rode off to the Ganges. There he 'borrowed' a mates boat for 60 rupees (about a tenth of the normal price) and with the gangster rowing we headed down the river. It soon became clear why he was a gangster and not a boat operator, his rowing was fairly shoddy. So I gave it a go, much to the amusement of the passing boats and found that it wasn't actually that easy. And I can imagine that with a load of fat tourists its nearly impossible to manage.

Anyway we finally pulled in next to a funeral ghat and I watched, with huge interest as a body was roasted on a pyre of sandalwood. Luckily the body was covered so it wasn't too gory but an arm did slip out mid-burn. All that remained after five minutes were a pair of dis-embodied legs that hadn't yet been caught by the flames and after another five it was all finished, just a pile of ashes. As the process came to an end a nearby cow tried to mount a passing buffalo despite being half its size. As well as being highly amused I didn't miss the metaphor of the circle of life and re-incarnation, especially in such a strongly Buddhist area.

That afternoon the party started! I'll write a separate entry about the wedding as otherwise you'll all get RSI from staring at the screen so long and I'll crash the BCS internet server.

The next morning I woke feeling slightly ropey after a whiskey too many and a night on the floor of a room shared with my three Indian bed buddies. Not sure why the bed became unavailable but floor it was.

I then spent a couple of hours in the house and a couple more being introduced to friends. After lunch I amused the family, for once earning the attention, by throwing grapes up and catching them in my mouth. They loved it.

Then said my salaams and walked off to the train station, relieved to have some time to myself. Then I parked up in a waiting room, chatted to the police chief next to me, said hi to the murderer he'd just arrested and then jumped on my train to Delhi.

Having only been able to book an unreserved place on the train I had steeled myself for a night like a sardine. So when a railway official offered me and the Japanese guy squashed next to me 'a seat' I didn't immediately take him up, however he insisted and I'm very glad he did as I was led to the disabled carriage at no extra cost, where I had a bit of floor to sleep on and space to move my hand from bag to mouth. I felt slightly guilty as there were no disabled people in the carriage, clearly only those who'd paid a bit or had connections were classified as 'disabled'. So it was in relative comfort that I pulled into Delhi the next morning where I had a fantastic 24 hours with Frederique and the kids and then caught the train up to Shimla.

Reflecting on the end of an amazing trip, it was completely mental, always interesting, mostly enjoyable and all in all a cracking adventure. I'll upload a separate piece about the wedding tomorrow as well as more photos.

Max

Quickly

Does anyone know how to remove mascara? I will share the story behind it soon don't worry.
Thanks

Holi

If one had been travelling around in India today then one would have been in grave danger of flying eggs, water balloons and red, green and pink dye. This is because today was Holi, the festival of colour was being held. It is held to celebrate the victory of Prahlada over his father, the king of demons. His father reckoned that Prahlada should worship him but the son had other ideas. He prayed to Lord Vishnu to save him from his fathers murder attempts and the world was shown that the king of demons could be overcome. Or so the story goes. Anyway it is held on the full moon in the Hindi month that coincides with February and March and also welcomes the coming of spring.

Not my pictures, but this is what they do!

At Bishop Cotton School it has for decades been celebrated by all of the above, as well as with no lessons, a cricket match, tearing clothes and general mischievousness. Today however the celebrations were very much muted. Last Diwhali a boy was hit in the eye by a firecracker and his parents asked if it were possible could the school not permit any celebrations that may endanger little Jonny, (or Yudveer in this case). As well as this there had been reports of eyes being stung due to the rubbing of toothpaste on the face as well as boys having to scrub their faces red to get rid of shoe polish that had been generously applied by seniors. Even so the boys writing their final exams (who completed Upper 6 last year) took a break from revision to wake all the boarding houses up with buckets of water at 1 o'clock in the morning and wish them Happy Holi. And then there was as much pasting, polishing and painting as possible before the teachers spoiled their fun. Luckily I was safely tucked up in bed in my own room but was amused by the state of many of the boys this morning.

It also snowed very briefly today which prompted a jam session in the main court with music blasting out the windows, all part of the traditional Indian Holi experience. 

While not of the best quality this photo kind of shows

how BCS boys celebrate Holi.

Cheers and Happy Holi.

Cricket Umpiring

For those of you from uncivilised countries that have never been exposed to the wonderful game of cricket, the umpire is like the referee, except he doesn't really move. He stands still, occasionally raising a finger or two or waving his arm about depending on what has just happened in the thrilling game in front of him. I've now umpired 5 matches in 6 days and each match has been about 4 hours meaning I've spent a hell of a lot of time standing very still on a dusty Indian cricket pitch.

(Thats me there in the blue)

 This afternoon was the closest I think I've come to falling asleep standing up as after 19 ½ hours the game isn't as interesting as it used to be. I've finally learnt all the rules though and has given me a lot of respect for the cricket coach here who yesterday umpired his 537^th school cricket match, so I'm learning from the best I suppose.

I'm going to take a break tomorrow I think and then I'll let Rory Manley (my friend from Marlborough) do the honours for a while when he arrives next week Sunday.

Cheers

Bishop Cotton School - A week in

Having been at the school a week (and then been on the move for the last week) I thought its probably time for a little update. I've settled in well and have a vague idea of what I'm going to be doing during my time here - umpiring cricket matches. But more on that another time. I've sat in on several classes, mostly maths and physics and am not sure whether to be pleased at how much I can remember or be worried at how much I've forgotten. Anyway I also got coerced into teaching an Upper 6 class about refraction of light which  they all found immensely exhilarating and were bursting with excitement.

Last week Wednesday I spent a lesson with the Class 3's, the 8 year olds right at the bottom of the school. They were newer to the school than I was having only arrived on Monday, so I was expecting a load of shy, quiet boys with tears in their eyes who I'd have trouble even getting to say their names. Instead I walked into the class to as much noise as a Mumbai green light. Feeling slightly wrong-footed I started introducing myself and they were quiet for 2 minutes before the ants in their pants got too much for them and they started jumping up, asking questions, shouting at each other and generally acting as normal boys do. I remembered that when you are a hyper-active little 8 year old with mates to impress, sitting in a corner facing the wall with your mouth taped shut is not an enjoyable way to spend 5 minutes. So the loudest boy got this treatment and it kept the class quiet enough to get a game of bingo going. Even that was an effort though and it took the remaining 25 minutes to play. On the basis of this, teaching them anything vaguely constructive is going to be nearly impossible, and I'm meant to be teaching French. Bonne chance!

On Sunday I went with some new found friends to Simla town. The centre where the oldest buildings are is still very English looking and one of the boys is the son of the deputy Mayor so he showed me 'daddy's office'. The rest of the town sprawls over the surrounding hills and all looks as though its about to fall off the side of the mountain. We visited 'Scandal Point', the yellow Christchurch and then went shopping, the deputy mayor's son buying me a classic Himachal Pradeshi hat which I'm proudly modelling below with my 60 rupee RenBin Wayfarer sunglasses given to me by Deepak. 

I like the town, it has character and charm despite it being a real hodge podge of buildings from the 1840s onwards but can see where the boys are coming from when they say that it gets fairly dull quite quickly, and night life is limited to er... not much.

I'm enjoying it though even if it is a little bit too much like going back school (incessant immature boy jokes and an actual scheduled day) and I've been included/forced my way in enough of a variety of activities to keep things interesting. The six o'clock morning run and cold bucket being a couple of activities slightly further down the fun ladder than others.

I'm on my way back to school after three days in Varanasi where I attended Deepak's brother's wedding and will let you know all about it soon.

Cheers

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If you feel so inclined I have added the follow widget to the right-hand side of the blog so that you can be alerted by email every time I post something.
Max

Pictures and a Quick Update

I'm sitting in an internet cafe in Delhi and annoyingly can't upload any text documents that I've written so will have to wait until I get back to school for that. But here are some pictures from the trip that i haven't uploaded yet to keep Mummy and Daddy happy.

Here is my '400 rupee a night shoe box' from my second

night in Mumbai.

This boy in Dharavi, the Mumbai slum, clearly thought that

his goat was getting a little porky and is giving it some exercise.

Victoria Terminus, the central train station in Mumbai.

Possibly a very heavy night, but as this was taken in the

Muslim quarter I doubt it. And I did check that he was

breathing, don't worry.

Here's what 40 rupees gets you.

That bag weighs 30kgs so he will have a 

slight headache and possibly a cricked neck 

for the rest of the day while I got my 5 minutes 

of feeling like an Imperial Victorian explorer.

I'm off to Varanasi now for Deepak's brother's wedding so will let you know how it all goes as well as posting stuff about the school and various other things. The trip so far has been interesting, I drove down to Delhi with the headmaster's son so got an alternative perspective on driving in India, basically there are no rules and its every man or woman for himself. 

I then spent 2 hours in a queue for a train ticket and missed the last train to Varanasi but managed to get one for this morning. Then I had to consider options for the night. Louis and Frederique were out of town so I rang up a few hotels but they were all either full or unreachable. At this point the platform was looking fairly appealing so interested to see what sleeping on a platform is like I pulled up some concrete and lay down against a pillar. This is clearly not common practice for foreigners in India as the looks I got from passers-by were hilarious. I was soon joined on my pillar by a exceptionally drunk Punjabi called Jaspeer. He refused to accept that I was from Zimbabwe or England and kept insisting that I was from America, Canada or Saudi Arabia. I started playing the same game and insisted that he was from Mumbai or Simla. He got very confused, burst into tears and then fell asleep next to me. I read for a bit more then spotted a free bench so kipped there for the night. Sleeping at a railway isn't as fun as it sounds and it doesn't even sound very fun to be honest. The trains are very, very noisy and the loudspeaker doesn't stop, even so I managed to get a good few hours and don't feel too ropey this morning.

Cheers

Delhi

After Mumbai even the capital of the world's biggest democracy seems chilled. It was also helped by having an amazing place to stay, somewhere I could relax completely for the first time since leaving Harare four days before. So big thanks to Louis and Frederique Leimgruber who put up with me for a few days.

The train pulled into New Delhi Central 26 and half hours after pulling out of CST, amazingly I hadn't got too bored, amusing myself by trying to talk to the Indian family who'd replaced the two bearded men and then reading every time we ran out of a common language. Then I had a manic 15 minutes trying to get a lift to Louis and Frederique's house, then a no less manic 15 minutes in the back of the tuk-tuk as it swerved in and out of traffic, (the driver drove it as though it was still a motorbike) before finally arriving.

My travelling companions and I after a lengthy journey!

Over the next couple of days I chilled at the house and went on a couple of excursions out into the city. The first was to the Mughal gardens surrounding Humayun's tomb, they are a lovely place to find some peace and quiet in the bustle of Delhi and I spent a while wandering around before heading over to the Muslim quarter.

 I joined in a casual game of cricket on the way and pasted their bowlers around the ground, to be fair most of them were only 9 or 10 and were bowling under arm but I left with shouts of 'Andy Flower!' following me and was very chuffed.

I then carried on and found scenes resembling Dharavi but on a smaller scale, the Muslims in Delhi clearly get a raw deal. It appears that all their money goes into their shop or stall and there house is barely considered as it had a colourful and bustling front but again a bit of digging revealed some very shabby accommodation.

That night I went to a talk on rural development with Frederique which was very interesting considering the variety of urban development I'd seen. The main problem seems to be the lack of ability of communities to govern themselves in the traditional sense as opposed to a more centralised system set up by the British. However the highlight had to be the elderly Indian chap who sat down in the corner and fell asleep after ten minutes, snoring throughout the hour long talk. We then went to a concert of Indian and Bangladeshi performers, although the music was very good there was hardly any response from the crowd with even an over-eager clap being frowned upon by the people around us. I found this surprising considering everything I'd heard of Indian's love for music.

I will leave this one here as I need a shower, cold mountain river water from a bucket of course and then hopefully off to my first Hindi lesson but will carry on asap.

Cheers

Max

The Magic Formula

Indian City Formula

I've worked out a formula in the five days I've been here that gives added meaning to Indian city life. This important formula allows taxi drivers to work out how often they should beep their horns and goes as follows:

Moving away from standstill or slowing down to a stop or any car visible through the windscreen or any turning made* = 2 two short blasts.

*(it seems beeping has replaced the seemingly superfluous art of slowing down, using mirrors and indicating, that is commonly used in other countries).

Car encroaching within 3 metre radius or any car, tuk-tuk slower than the taxi or any bicycle, pedestrian = 3 (two short and one long).

The formula is exceptionally accurate but what doesn't include is that taxi drivers will hoot every

thirty seconds anyway, regardless of whether they are stationary, moving, stuck in traffic or cruising down a deserted road (not that this happens often). This is probably to make sure that the horn is working in case of one of the emergencies mentioned in the formula.

Millions of black and yellow cabs infest the cities.

It certainly seems to be the most important part of the taxi in the view of most drivers. I have seen taxis driving past with crumpled bumpers, flat tyres, smoking engines and every other type of malady. Yet only once have I seen any repairs being carried out. It was in Mumbai, on the side of a dual-carriage way and I saw a taxi driver jump out of the car with the engine running, open the bonnet tweak something, lean in the window and give two lusty blasts of the horn to make sure it was indeed fixed before grinning like a madman, hopping in and speeding off with the correct number of accompanying hoots.

Not sure what 'Yeh the horns working so lets go' in

Hindi is but I'm sure I could learn it from these guys.

And what I love is that there are never any bad intentions, it is simply to let everyone know that they are there and that their horn is still working and more often than not they break into smile at the sound of their own horn. It is like the call of a baby penguin that a mother or father can recognise in the midst of thousands of others in the colony. I reckon if you took a taxi driver and showed him hundreds of identical taxis he would be able to identify his by the sound its horn makes, so well acquainted is he with its tones. Indeed the first Hindi phrase I learnt from Deepak was 'haren dina' which literally means 'beep beep'.

And of course it is not limited to taxis - other cars, tuk-tuks, trucks and buses all make their presence well known while it also appears to be a legal requirement for bicycles to have a bell – but taxis are by far the worst offenders.

This sign can be found on the backs of vehicles owned by

those most committed to the cause, (mostly taxis).

It does, I have to admit get a little wearing on the nerves, it is incessant and when on foot there is nothing to isolate you from the wall of sound that is emitted from a traffic light turning green. However it is an essential part of the vivid Indian city experience and life here would be diminished without it.

Max

In Simla

Just a quick one to say that I arrived in Simla safely and have settled in at Bishop Cotton School. The boys are very friendly and I think they're fairly impreesed by having a gora as I'm bombarded with questions and generally looked at as an authority on everything. Ego hasn't felt this good for ages. I've also started cricket practices, which deflated the ego somewhat and started boxing today. So if you dont recognise the flat-nosed person in subsequent photos you'll know why.

I'll post some longer blogs as soon as I can find a plug adaptor to charge my laptop.
Just a quick thank you to Granny and Grampa who visited BCS a few weeks ago and left a lovely postcard for me. Also mum says that the follow gadget on the side of the log isnt there but it may be up at the top of the page. Ill try and sort it out.
Cheers for now.