Subcontinent Sketches

Irrelevant photo 1. World Children's Day

My time is up, the coconut chutney has been all but scooped up, and my blog is certainly reaching its expiry date. Here are some sketches from the trip: scenes and events that were particularly remarkable, curious, or nutty. I've thrown in a few photos, relevant or otherwise.

Irrelevant photo 2: Curry and rice for two please

1. We arrived in Amaravathi, three bumpy hours Southwest of Vijayawada, hoping to see something of the 2000 year old Buddhist stupa that once dominated the site (although there was little left other than a few carved slabs). We headed to the courtyard of the Siva temple and bought a soft drink when a Hindu priest in orange robes approached us. Then a litany of the same old questions: 'what is your country?', 'what is your purpose here?', followed by 'I like you...I like you'. He had a funny manner about him: childish, sweet, soppy, a tad on the simple side. As he was inviting us to see him in the temple, a cartoonishly large and muscular man in a tank top marched up to him, enraged, and slapped him hard around the face. The bony cleric pleaded in Telugu, tears welling up in his big puppy eyes, but the offended man roared further and pushed him to floor. A lotus flower was knocked out of his trembling hand and landed gently at my feet. 'Smuggling!' whispered the soft drink-seller. While I pondered over the dramatic items this preist may have smuggled, he kicked off his sandals sheepishly and the agressor put them on and walked away. Ah, the perils of having to go into temples unshod...

2. Theresa's drivers never were reliable, but at times their distance from the values of PSVS edged on farce. On the day of the the Avanigadda Court of Women, where people came in their droves to listen and speak about violence in the family, Ramu was being particularly slack at speeding people and equipment to the venue. Theresa had been working for over a year to raise awareness about the brutality and discrimination that women in Andhra Pradesh were enduring, desperately educating them - and their husbands, sons, and fathers - about the necessity for gender equality. Ramu stepped out of the car to carry some pamphlets, attired - to Theresa's horror - in one of the sloganed t-shirts so popular with young Indian men: 'I hate girls' it read. Needless to say, he didn't quite complete his probation period.

3. Gandhi's ashram attracted the best and the most bizarre of characters. I won't forget one particularly charismatic man, who purported to have given up his career as a rich executive for Glaxo Smithkline for the Gandhian ideals of communal life and simplicity. He also, as he made evidently clear, was leading a 'movement' and had 'converted' hundreds of youths to his cause. What this cause was unclear - it seemed little more than an ill-defined and conspiratorial anti-capitalism. Stranger still, during a more accusatory speech, it became obvious that he conflated capitalism and the evils of globalisation with Western medicine. 'So, what about people that depend on medicine and technology to stay alive?' we asked, quite predictably. 'They don't deserve to live; if their bodies are not fit then neither are their minds...' A Gandhian eugenicist, no less.

Relevant photo a. Magazine man

4. I have to mention another character from this place, an old man whose wife I had established a personal vendetta against because of her eating habits. Each meal time the ashramites sat together to eat the same tasteless slop, whilst she made guttural gurgles and nasal disgraces during which volcanoes of phlegm would vibrate in collision with the food that she was clearly snorting instead of eating. I won't even go into the belching or the intermittent and inexpliccable groans. Oh, how I secretly despised her in that haven of peace and compassion! On my last day I sat with her husband - a repetitive, endearing, yet slightly tiresome old man - when he handed me a magazine. It didn't take long to see that the whole publication was a tribute to him and his wife's life of dedication to the ideals of satyagraha and social reform. As I leafed through, I saw photo after photo of them shaking hands with politicians with quotes in bold praising their huge contribution to peace and progress. The moral is a particularly relevant lesson for me: don't judge a person by their eating habits.

Djinns in Delhi, Gaiety in Goa

I find myself on a Southern Goan beach guiltily glutting on soft dark green avacados: the most un-Indian of edibles. They cannot be baked in a tandoor; deep fried in a batter of gram flour and cumin seeds; mixed with curry leaves and stuffed in a crispy dosa; or scooped up with an acidic, seedy, lime pickle. And yet they are here, along with every other possible wish or whim, in the shacks of sleepy, lovely, Benaulim where I am spending Christmas and new year with the others of my clan, celebrated vividly by the abundance of Goan Christians (the Portuguese were a touch better at imprinting Christianity on their colonial subjects than the British ever managed to be).

First things first, I have many stories to tell which I will have to suffuse to a fine potion of startlingly wonderful temples, monuments, and mausoleums, built by Chandelas, Bundelas, Mughals, Rajputs, etc etc etc.


I won't be a bore and relate it all, as fascinating as it was. Just know that the palace forts of Orchha are looming and graceful, the temple carvings of Kajuraho alarmingly rude and intricate, and the perfection of the Taj Mahal still manages to make up for the rest of Agra - a place which suffers from a vacuum of the soul, where tourism has rotten it to the core, where the atmosphere is distinctly 'us and them' (ok, I got rocks thrown and me by teenagers so I'm biased). Still, I met up with a bit of a travel writer on India and his words could have been my own: it's a shithole.


With boundless optimism we rode onwards and upwards to Delhi, the pair of us radiant with excitement about the capital city that we had read so much about. Delhi holds the secret of at least six fallen cities and has been the seat of empire time and time again. We strode happily down the European boulevards of New Delhi, cowering under the austere and visionary British architecture, poking around the ruins of Tughlaqabad and Siri in the south and then, before I knew it, we were struck down with an illness so grim we were bedridden for a week. Lamentably, I missed most of Delhi, and all of Jaipur, as I rolled around in a stupor in grotty hotel rooms. Anyway, here's a Jaipur sunset for the hell of it.


Just before Goa, we spent a few days in dorms in Mumbai: a fabulous, cosmopolitan, buzzing city which I will remember for its higgledy-piggledy colonial architecture, parks packed with cricket matches, bhel puri on Chowpatty Beach, the beautiful view of the city from the rock cut caves of Elephanta Island, and the sight of the Gateway to India as you sail away from the Mumbai coast, just as the British did for the very last time in 1947.

Varanasi: Purgatory, Puja, Pastry

Filled with wintry abandon, we are sliding up the sliced open heart of India, running - mostly sensibly - amok.After contemplation and caffeine headaches at Gandhi's ashram, we watched the landscape change from verdant cultivating fields to flat, wiry scrubland as we swerved northeast to Varanasi in a 20 hour train journey in third AC - a profane luxury after becoming so accustomed to the exuberant chaos and part-time cockroaches of sleeper class.
It comes as no surprise to a visitor of Varanasi - and there are many at this time of year - to learn that it is the central focus of the Hindu religion and one of the oldest cities in the world. Our magnificently cheap lodge towered high up in the Old City, a labyrinth of narrow alleyways, flanked by rather persistent sellers of garments, jewellery, sweets and chai, which barely accommodates the surge of pilgrims and tourists that pulse though it. I have never been so repeatedly lost and so surprised by the places my inexperienced tread led me. Many times we followed a simple route parallel to the river and found ourselves bewildered outside of a temple, stuck in the pushy throng of men and women from all over India eager to offer puja to the resident god; or scratching out heads after ending up in a cul-de-sac with no one but a masticating cow trying to get a bit of chill-out time from the madness outside; or, uncomfortably, in the rubbish and sewage-strewn court yard of the slum-like local residence, where barely-clad children played kites and tickled puppies among the waste.

Once we had ploughed our way through the maze, retracing our steps from doorways and stairs that led nowhere and throwing off the touts and hawkers, we found ourselves at the ghats. These high steps fringe the Ganges on one side, accompanied by temples, lingams, observatories and a host of of wonderfully ornate buildings dating from a range of periods of history, all of which exist in varying degrees of splendour and decrepitude.We often spent whole days wandering along the ghats, watching the Ganges with its bathers and pilgrims enjoying the (frankly toxic) river water as dobhis lay out saris on the riverbank, patchworked with drying fabrics.


On two nights we paid rowers to take us out on leaky wooden boats. From the moonlit river we half curiously, half reluctantly, saw the fires from burning corpses illuminate the temples along the river in scene of apocalyptic proportions - although it was perversely tempered by the droves of tour groups in engine boats whose bumbags were silhouetted against the flames. It was forbidden, and deemed highly unrespectful, to take photographs, although it did not stop the bumbag wallahs who perched on tiptoes, presumably arching for the best shot for their cadaver collections 2010.

Gandhi's Ashram: Satyagraha and Secret Naps

Khaki pants a-go-go, the sightseeing has commenced. We left Vijayawada station, emotions tempered with a wonderfully fitting send off in the form of a six hour delay.

Then a few days in Hyderabad to see Golconda Fort (below) - a citadel which was the area's capital before Hyderabad, and which has seen all sorts of fascinating rulers, from Qutb Shahs to the Nizams who stepped in after Aurangzeb's Mughal invasion. It's worth venturing out to Hyderabad for this alone.

We left Hyderabad for Sevagram on a packed train, without a seat. After eight hours of sneaking on someone else's berth, we pulled in to a disconcertingly clean, quiet village in the heart of India, looking for a place to stay in the Ashram.

A small kerfuffle over there being no where for us to stay, then they found us a room on site and let us settle in. But first we had to go with the ashramites who were sorting us out to a family's house across the street. 'What for?' we asked. 'Marriage, marriage...' they replied.

We looked on blankly and then a roar of laughter and no further explanation. Naughty, sneaky Gandhians. Thankfully it transpired that we were just going to a celebrate the marriage of Lord Krishna by standing outside a house and throw

ing bits of rice on a small tree while they sang chants. An unexpected way of spending the evening but that's life. Anyway, they gave us tasty snacks of puffed rice and pulses which were like manna after a day of nothing more than oat biscuits.

After crashing to bed at 9pm, we woke to bells at 4.30am and joined the handful of others, sitting in the dark, on the veranda of Gandhi's house for prayer and meditation whilst a man and a woman chanted. The rest of the day was structured around small tasks - I swept Gandhi's house and Wilf picked leaves from his lawn, and we both helped to weed the vegetable garden (the ashram is entirely self-sufficient) - plus very basic communal meals and reflection (which I called nap time, although this wasn't really allowed).

Escape from the Deccan

My time in Andhra Pradesh has come to an end. We spent the last few days zooming around on buses to Avanigadda and Visanapeta, finishing off work and sitting in on awareness programmes and meetings for the next public hearings. We were treated with a few visits to PSVS hostels for school dropouts: heads, shoulders, knees, toes and other variants of fun. It's strange to think of it all continuing, work which is so important for so many, yet so exasperatingly fragile.

Here is a picture of the gang of volunteers, workers, helpers and general superwomen from the Avanigadda compound. I will miss their warmth, their solidarity, their cackles of laughter at any given opportunity.



And another photo for good measure; there are million thing that I haven't had a chance to comement on in this blog, and the MJM College walk is one of them. In solidarity with a donor who is walking thousands of miles around Holland to raise money for the college, the students at MJM walked 20km a day for five days. Quite a feat in that temperature. The photo shows Wilf and Bhaskar - who works for PSVS and the college - taking a rest after a particularly sweaty day of the walk. Bhaskar really is a king among men, adored by the students and indispensable for the NGO. He is also famed for his excellent taste in fried snacks and sweets - his gifts to us were abundant!



I shall miss the Krishna District and all its charms: the arching palmyras, the lush, wet, paddies, the bedazzling heights of Vijayawada, the monkeys hanging out in Tiruvur, the activists and NGO heros who are too many to list and are left to do too much, Theresa with her infinite maternal kindness whose heart is that of a true warrior for social justice, and last but not least, the wails of the pigs outside of our small and lovely flat in Gannavaram.

The Avanigadda Public Hearing

Take this as a scene: the cook and housemaid at the PSVS compound - the gorgeously exuberant, wide-eyed lady who tutors me in chappati, dahl, and dosa, and breaks up the long days with 'coffee Joey' - is stood on a brightly-lit stage, in front of 500 people, in floods of furious tears.

Despite the Telugu, I knew the outline of the story she was relating to the audience of the Town Hall; it had been recorded weeks before this day, translated, and given to me and Wilf to prepare for publication. The story relates her own experience of unthinkable loss, abuse, confinement and violence, at the hands of previous husbands. She is one of 25 women who gave their testimonies on the 29th of October at the Krishna District Court of Women's first public hearing in Avanigadda.


After days of laborious, repetitive work and frazzled nerves, with the last folders folded, and all documentation a-ready, the court finally commenced. The expert witnesses, consisting of academics and delegates from women's rights NGOs whose function was to 'make sense of' and 'contextualise' the violence, took their places on the stage. The audience of testifiers, other NGO and women's group members, volunteers, politicians, students, lawyers, locals, and other interested folk, watched on.

Thus the day unfolded, predictably chaotic, mostly incomprehensible to my English ears but, thankfully, a success. The testimonies were given despite power cuts and an audience whose levels of respect wavered throughout. And with all the tears and the hitches, each of the women who spoke did so with dignity, purpose and confidence, finally giving a voice to the violence which has become endemic behind the closed doors of homes in Andhra Pradesh.

'There's nothing like this in the district - or even in any district here' said Jose, a campaigner and staff member who has dedicated his life to promoting rights and education to the vulnerable, particularly the tribal communities of India.

As far as I'm concerned, this says it all. In a country that is bursting at the seams with NGOs, which holds perfectly decent women's rights legislation, there are still no forums where women can simply stand up and express the crimes committed against them. There are so many reasons for this, from cultural and social biases to insane levels of corruption, which prevent the mainstream courts, police, and political and welfare institutions from providing a fair platform for women.

What a triumph that, for one day, the court of women provided such a space.

Picture book diary

All I ever seem to do is write. Posters, brochures, manifestos on women's human rights, all of them so flowery they leave you bouquet-heady with the delights of Indian idioms.

Here are some pictures to speak some words:


The view from the Charminar in Hyderabad - the busiest city I have ever set my sandal in. A truly wonderful, disorientating place.


Finishing my book on the train back to Vijayawada. We stood in the open doorway for the last hour as the train pulled in, racing across the vast moonlit river from Gunter district.


Only hanging out in a private members club with some friends - yes, I said friends. So what if they're just the guys that fix my laptop?


The beach at Machilipatnam - less swimming, more speeding in a motorbike/autorickaw with your entire extended family on board. Still, I dipped in the sea and swam in all of my clothes, appearing, as far as the reaction of other beach-goers tells me, like a ginger sea monster.