Month: May 2017

Subtitle: Abroad Thoughts From Home

I leave Delhi early in the morning, with the scent of jasmine and the sound of peacocks, lingering in my senses. A long day’s travelling lies ahead but I anticipate it with some excitement: after all, I am homeward bound.

An ocean of thinking time is available so inevitably I spend some of the return journey reflecting on my recent voyage. One of the things I wanted to test when I set out was the impact of unstructured time, something I haven’t had very much of for the last thirty years. I’ve long wondered whether the hubbub of “busy lives” crowds out space for contemplation:  there is a Buddhist saying that you cannot see your reflection in running water, only still. Perhaps it makes us feel more significant when our days and weeks are pre-programmed and during some phases of life, especially when you’re tied to the routine of small children, a sense of constrained time is unavoidable. But does “busy-ness” – which is now invariably worn as a 21st century badge of honour – really provide the best conditions for we humans to give the most favourable account  of ourselves?

For the past couple of months, liberation from the slavery of the calendar has been a revelation to me. Instead of spending time anticipating what’s coming, I’ve been existing wholly in the moment. Many days I’ve woken up not knowing what’s going to happen for the next 24 hours. At best I’ve had a flight, train or hotel booked, but often with very little idea of what I’m going to do when I get wherever I am headed.  And on other days I’ve not had a plan at all, particularly when I’ve been “resting” in Delhi between forays. Consequently it’s been possible to let a conversation run its natural course for 3 or 4 hours rather than have to curtail it because I’m on to the next thing. What might previously have been a snatched word  – or even a text message – about today’s meals has morphed into an unexpected opportunity to find out how an Indian cook gets to learn French cuisine, how many children he’s got, what looks good at the market today and the meaning of Hindu festivals. And it’s been a treat to walk in the park for as long as I want, stand and watch eagles fly above my head, spend ages taking a photograph or read my book for two hours uninterrupted. 

All the same, there’s no denying that any trip to India, particularly for solo travellers, is going to bring its share of frustrations. Yes I’ve been lonely at times, restless and indecisive, far too hot (often!) and fed up at being unable to progress from A to B outside without hearing “Taxi Madam?” or be loudly honked at. Not having the correct change has been a constant anxiety (for anyone travelling to India I have two words of advice: small notes), and  I have been driven to the edge of reason by the world of pain which is the Indian railways website www.IRCTC.co.in (please never follow this link).

It’s easy for any visitor to India to lose sympathy with the litter and filth – and wonder why the scrupulous approach all Indians take to personal hygiene and grooming (even the unfortunate people who sleep beside the railway line can invariably be seen in the mornings performing ablutions with bucket and jug) is so mis-aligned with the (lack of) respect many display for their surroundings. I’ve been tempted to throttle the next person who asks me if I would like “to make a little detour to visit his uncle’s/cousin’s/father’s pashmina/shoe/handicraft shop” and I’ve certainly felt intense frustration at attitudes towards women, especially in the North,  their invisibility, lack of equal opportunity, and general condemnation, particularly at the lower levels of society, to a life of subordination.  But regardless of these travails, finding ways to adjust to the demands of Indian life, has all been part of the experience. I’ve had to mine the depths of my resilience, perfect the art of non-engagement when being offered unwanted services (wear dark glasses and keep your mouth shut: even “no” to a persistent hawker is received as an indication of willingness to negotiate) and despite the innate resistance of any Britisher to such a concept, I eventually began to develop the art of haggling.

Along the way numerous wonders have captivated me both man-made – Humayun’s tomb, Fatehpur Sikri, the incomparable Gateway of India, Marine Drive, the forts of Rajasthan and of course the Taj Mahal, – and natural – tigers in the wild, colourful and crazy birds, playful monkeys inches away, the beautiful, ever-smiling children of the Himalayas in their hand-embroidered clothes – and I’ve experienced many moments of startling insight and joy. I’ve eaten some fantastic meals – there is nowhere in the world better to be a vegetarian, the Gujarati thalis cannot be surpassed and I’m now mad about paneer masala, lassi, all forms of Indian chai, moong daal and various other dishes (none of which taste in their native country much like what you get in an Indian restaurant in the UK). But above all I’ve stumbled into a heady love affair with the incredible country which is India, and its wonderfully warm, humorous, hospitable, forgiving, ever-helpful, gracious, forward-looking people. The photo below sums Indians up for me (taken through a taxi window so not a work of art): a family of four squashed together on a motorbike, careering through the streets. It illustrates the sanctity of family – family is everything to Indians – their legendary disregard for health and safety (only one helmet and that to protect the adult male!) but also the fundamental determination and joie de vivre which you observe everywhere in the country, despite the privations many of its people suffer relative to us.

London is and will remain my favourite place in the world but when I finally get here, it has never looked so anaemic after the daily rainbow which is India and everything seems so regimented, so evolved, by comparison. There is not a ruminant in sight on or beside the road as we drive back from the airport and all dogs are on leads. We glide to a civilised halt at pedestrian crossings, remain steadfastly in our lane and use the horn not once. Thankfully the sky has decided to be blue for my return, but there’s a definite nip in the air. And it seems inconceivable that the coy yellow sphere in the sky, which occasionally peeps out feebly from behind the clouds to slightly increase the air temperature, can possibly be the same incandescent ball of searing fire which dominates every aspect of existence on the sub-continent. Yes, I’m back home. But India: I’m sure going to miss you.

On reflection, I’m so glad I waited 50 years to make this trip, because I wouldn’t have had the same experience if I’d done it younger. When I was a girl, and used to moan to my mother about yet another family holiday in a boarding house in Wales while my friends jetted off to (then unimaginably glamorous) destinations like Majorca, she used to say to me “If you’ve got it all at fourteen dear, what’s left at forty?”

And you know what: turns out she was right.

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Footnote #1: This is the end of A Passage from India but I am planning more adventures in the next few months so there may be further, less regular blogs. Watch this space and thank you for sharing in my self-indulgence by reading it up to now.

Footnote#2: A few blog followers have asked what I read while I was away. Luggage restrictions meant I couldn’t carry all the books I was kindly given before I left: I am looking forward to reading those now I’m back.

The list below excludes my trusty guide books:

Taken with me

City of Djinns William Dalrymple, describing his own year in Delhi

A Fine Balance Rohinton Mistry: an epic masterpiece, which hugely enhanced my visit

The God of Small Things Arundhati Roy, set in Kerala which is top of my must-visit list for my next trip to India

This Bloody Project Graeme Macrae Burnett: real crime, very Scottish: an antidote to Indian literature

 Snaffled from, and returned to, the bookshelves in Delhi

View from the Foothills Chris Mullin, for about the tenth time, but you can’t go wrong

The Spy who came in from the Cold John Le Carre: third attempt, still not sure I get it

Behind Closed Doors Hugo Vickers (about Wallis Simpson and the Duke of Windsor)

Gordon Brown by Tom Bower

A Boy’s Own Story Edmund White (a sort of gay Catcher in the Rye: excellent)

In the Fold Rachel Cusk

Diana: Her True Story Andrew Morton (what an extraordinary book this is, both the content and the fact it was ever written and published)

The Roots of Radical Islam Gilles Kepel

Common Purpose Justin Trudeau

The Spin Doctor’s Diary, inside No 10 with new Labour Lance Price: subject matter interest 8/10, execution 1/10

and

Found in a hotel

The Secret life of Bees by Sue Monk Kidd: terrible (both the book and the hotel)

And finally, my trip was made possible by my family, my workplace, many friends who provided practical and moral support, and especially by AG and DLS in Delhi: thank you all very much.