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| the colours of India |
Entry 21 – Random Reflections (and there will be more)
Today we leave Mysore, after a little more than six weeks here. We have travelled around both in Mysore as well as around this city in southern Karnataka, seeing gardens, temples, palaces, and places of religious and historic significance. We have learned to bargain with the autorickshaw drivers for a good rate (and sometimes we manage it successfully) and we have figured out the bus system and ridden on some very old and very crowded Indian buses. We have found our way around the city so that we if want pizza or other familiar food we know where to go and how to get there; we have gone to the market and bought oranges mangoes or gifts for ourselves or others, and we have worked out where to get chocolate when we need it. And beyond these life-coping skills, we have learned a lot about Indian culture and civilization, both in the classroom and outside it.
Today we leave Mysore, after a little more than six weeks here. We have travelled around both in Mysore as well as around this city in southern Karnataka, seeing gardens, temples, palaces, and places of religious and historic significance. We have learned to bargain with the autorickshaw drivers for a good rate (and sometimes we manage it successfully) and we have figured out the bus system and ridden on some very old and very crowded Indian buses. We have found our way around the city so that we if want pizza or other familiar food we know where to go and how to get there; we have gone to the market and bought oranges mangoes or gifts for ourselves or others, and we have worked out where to get chocolate when we need it. And beyond these life-coping skills, we have learned a lot about Indian culture and civilization, both in the classroom and outside it.
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| John at the Institute, week one |
I have travelled, with a colleague in history, to Melkote and Srirangapatna, to discover other stories and buildings from India’s past. I have seen that, here too, the link between religion and political or military life was sometimes close; a temple built on a high hill alongside a main road of commerce from north and south not only attracts pilgrims, but enables authorities to see large movements of people (or soldiers) from a very great distance. Even in the modern world of paved roads, clouds of dust are raised by animals on the move, and evidence of that movements rises up through the treetops to be seen from miles away.
I have travelled alone to Bengalore, and dealt with the bureaucracy of Air India. And there, as never before, I have learned patience. Four hours to change airline tickets, including thirty minutes to actually print them on an ancient (by my standards) dot matrix tractor-feed printer, in which the printer ribbon kept coming out of its guide necessitating a halt to the process while the technical assistant opened the machine and put it back in printing order. And working with nine young adults, all female, on a twenty-four/seven basis, I have further developed patience. I can breathe very deeply for a long time, and count to ten, or a hundred, or a thousand. I made a return trip to Mysore Palace yesterday – a Sunday, the busiest day for visitors – as I really wanted a good picture of the front of the palace without a lot of people in the way, so I picked my spot and waited, and waited, and waited, all very patiently. And after more than half of hour of waiting, and most of a bottle of water, there was a moment when the throngs of people were not right there, and there were no families and no couples and no groups of young men vying for the perfect picture of themselves in front of the palace. And I got my picture, as did an Indian man who had been waiting about fifteen minutes – and he was gracious enough to take a picture with my camera of me in front of the palace as well.
Beyond formal instruction and reading, I have been learning through every conversation, every encounter, every journey out into the city or surrounding countryside. And mostly I have just learned to be very, very patient, as there are differences in the way some things are done and I just need to let those things happen in their own way; they may not be better ways, in my view, but I cannot impose my Canadian model on this culture; I realize, of course, that I cannot and will not change India. Although it will undoubtedly change me.
I have learned, as in my trip to Bangalore as well as other places, that white foreigners are often jumped ahead of the queue or given special treatment (as at the Air India office, where my driver could park the car in the shade under the “no parking” sign, the door attendant earning a small gratuity for this privilege); I have learned that with special treatments, a small gratuity might or might not be expected. But as much as I have learned that I might also get special treatment, I have not become comfortable with it, nor with the expectations that may accompany that treatment. A white foreigner walking on the street is hardly left alone, as almost every available autorickshaw driving by slows down, the driver looking expectant and hopeful.
I have gained some insight into the life of the autorickshaw driver, who must know the city, and its businesses and institutions and know the shortest or quickest route. The driver must also have rudimentary mechanical knowledge in case a quick repair is needed to the keep the machine in running order. I have come to appreciate that these drivers work long hours, and receive little compensation (none if there are no fares), and that some will be fairer than others in the bargaining process, and others will simply use the meter on the cab.
I have travelled alone to Bengalore, and dealt with the bureaucracy of Air India. And there, as never before, I have learned patience. Four hours to change airline tickets, including thirty minutes to actually print them on an ancient (by my standards) dot matrix tractor-feed printer, in which the printer ribbon kept coming out of its guide necessitating a halt to the process while the technical assistant opened the machine and put it back in printing order. And working with nine young adults, all female, on a twenty-four/seven basis, I have further developed patience. I can breathe very deeply for a long time, and count to ten, or a hundred, or a thousand. I made a return trip to Mysore Palace yesterday – a Sunday, the busiest day for visitors – as I really wanted a good picture of the front of the palace without a lot of people in the way, so I picked my spot and waited, and waited, and waited, all very patiently. And after more than half of hour of waiting, and most of a bottle of water, there was a moment when the throngs of people were not right there, and there were no families and no couples and no groups of young men vying for the perfect picture of themselves in front of the palace. And I got my picture, as did an Indian man who had been waiting about fifteen minutes – and he was gracious enough to take a picture with my camera of me in front of the palace as well.
Beyond formal instruction and reading, I have been learning through every conversation, every encounter, every journey out into the city or surrounding countryside. And mostly I have just learned to be very, very patient, as there are differences in the way some things are done and I just need to let those things happen in their own way; they may not be better ways, in my view, but I cannot impose my Canadian model on this culture; I realize, of course, that I cannot and will not change India. Although it will undoubtedly change me.
I have learned, as in my trip to Bangalore as well as other places, that white foreigners are often jumped ahead of the queue or given special treatment (as at the Air India office, where my driver could park the car in the shade under the “no parking” sign, the door attendant earning a small gratuity for this privilege); I have learned that with special treatments, a small gratuity might or might not be expected. But as much as I have learned that I might also get special treatment, I have not become comfortable with it, nor with the expectations that may accompany that treatment. A white foreigner walking on the street is hardly left alone, as almost every available autorickshaw driving by slows down, the driver looking expectant and hopeful.
I have gained some insight into the life of the autorickshaw driver, who must know the city, and its businesses and institutions and know the shortest or quickest route. The driver must also have rudimentary mechanical knowledge in case a quick repair is needed to the keep the machine in running order. I have come to appreciate that these drivers work long hours, and receive little compensation (none if there are no fares), and that some will be fairer than others in the bargaining process, and others will simply use the meter on the cab.
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| autorickshaws everywhere |
On one occasion, after an evening downtown, I was quoted a rate of 200 rupees (just under four dollars) for the trip back to the hostel for me and one student; the usual rate is between 130 and 160. After concluding I would not strike a good deal, I ended negotiations, determining to walk a short distance towards the bus station, and either catch a bus (at 9 rupees, less than 20 cents) or find a better bargain with another driver. After walking only fifty yards, another driver approached me and the student, and perhaps having seen us turn away from the first driver, quoted us only 100 rupees. A large underbid, in order to make at least a little money on a quiet evening; he gave us good service and was paid 130 rupees, to his delight.
I still have not learned properly when a tip, gratuity or small monetary gift is appropriate, or how much to give. At the palace, I went on the elephant ride, and the driver (if that is the right word) of the elephant slid down to the ground using the elephant’s ear, and encouraged me to sit on the elephant’s head and drive while he took pictures with my camera. So I have not only enjoyed riding an elephant in the howdah, the carriage that sits on the elephant’s back and holds up to eight riders, I have learned to “drive” an elephant! Sort of. I expected to pay for this, and did, and more than I thought I would have to pay (but it’s his living, and I had fun, so it did not detract from the adventure). I had left my bag with the man taking tickets at the entrance for elephant rides , asking if he would keep an eye on it for; he did, and I expected to pay something for this, but he refused to accept any money.
When I bought a pair of trousers, the clerk arranged for me to have them hemmed by his tailor, and I enquired about the process and the cost. I was simply assured “my boy will come.” So I paid for the trousers, and then to my surprise they were put in the bag, again with the assurance that “my boy will come”, leaving me wondering the purpose of bagging my purchase if the tailor was going to come to the store. At this point, the boy did come – from where, I have no idea; it as though the store clerk had suddenly conjured him up from thin air! The boy was about twelve, perhaps, and led me off down the busy main road at high speed, stopping suddenly to cross the very busy street. He was actually very good about making sure I didn’t get hit by a car, taxi, motorcycle, bus, truck or other moving vehicle when we crossed the road, and then we made our way through a maze of back alleys – it was very interesting to see the backside of the city, so to speak, including into people’s homes as most of the doors stood wide open. And we stopped at one home (these are all concrete structures that are joined to one another), and the boy summoned out a man who went and opened a garage-style door. It was a small windowless room that contained a bicycle, a calendar from 2008, three treadle-operated sewing machines, a nail in the wall holding a measuring tape, a small wooden bench and a sleeping man. The man was awakened, and took my leg measurement, and then altered the pants while I waited and looked out on the back entrance to a little temple, with its various comings and goings. In about ten minutes I was being led back through the maze of alleys to the main road again with my pants, now altered, and a whole forty rupees lighter (about 75 cents). And the boy would not accept any gratuity for the service rendered.
As I think of clothing, I have come to appreciate the rich sense of colour in India, apparent in in clothing but also in the buildings. The women’s saris are magnificent displays of colour and pattern, as is the attire worn by younger working women, the salwar kameez. This is the outfit adopted by the Mount Allison students, consisting of leggings (the salwar) and a long, loose tunic or shirt (the kameez), and a matching scarf.
I still have not learned properly when a tip, gratuity or small monetary gift is appropriate, or how much to give. At the palace, I went on the elephant ride, and the driver (if that is the right word) of the elephant slid down to the ground using the elephant’s ear, and encouraged me to sit on the elephant’s head and drive while he took pictures with my camera. So I have not only enjoyed riding an elephant in the howdah, the carriage that sits on the elephant’s back and holds up to eight riders, I have learned to “drive” an elephant! Sort of. I expected to pay for this, and did, and more than I thought I would have to pay (but it’s his living, and I had fun, so it did not detract from the adventure). I had left my bag with the man taking tickets at the entrance for elephant rides , asking if he would keep an eye on it for; he did, and I expected to pay something for this, but he refused to accept any money.
When I bought a pair of trousers, the clerk arranged for me to have them hemmed by his tailor, and I enquired about the process and the cost. I was simply assured “my boy will come.” So I paid for the trousers, and then to my surprise they were put in the bag, again with the assurance that “my boy will come”, leaving me wondering the purpose of bagging my purchase if the tailor was going to come to the store. At this point, the boy did come – from where, I have no idea; it as though the store clerk had suddenly conjured him up from thin air! The boy was about twelve, perhaps, and led me off down the busy main road at high speed, stopping suddenly to cross the very busy street. He was actually very good about making sure I didn’t get hit by a car, taxi, motorcycle, bus, truck or other moving vehicle when we crossed the road, and then we made our way through a maze of back alleys – it was very interesting to see the backside of the city, so to speak, including into people’s homes as most of the doors stood wide open. And we stopped at one home (these are all concrete structures that are joined to one another), and the boy summoned out a man who went and opened a garage-style door. It was a small windowless room that contained a bicycle, a calendar from 2008, three treadle-operated sewing machines, a nail in the wall holding a measuring tape, a small wooden bench and a sleeping man. The man was awakened, and took my leg measurement, and then altered the pants while I waited and looked out on the back entrance to a little temple, with its various comings and goings. In about ten minutes I was being led back through the maze of alleys to the main road again with my pants, now altered, and a whole forty rupees lighter (about 75 cents). And the boy would not accept any gratuity for the service rendered.
As I think of clothing, I have come to appreciate the rich sense of colour in India, apparent in in clothing but also in the buildings. The women’s saris are magnificent displays of colour and pattern, as is the attire worn by younger working women, the salwar kameez. This is the outfit adopted by the Mount Allison students, consisting of leggings (the salwar) and a long, loose tunic or shirt (the kameez), and a matching scarf.
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| beautifully-coloured saris, at the shop -- it must be hard to decide! |
Almost every sari I see, I think, is most magnificent one yet! But there is always another one that is even better. They are rich in colour and design, and are made of cotton or cotton blend, or silk. There are floral patterns, and geometric designs, and some with gold embroidery; some are rich and solidly coloured with elegant borders, others have intricate small patterns of flowers or vines or patterns, and yet others have large, bold patterns in abstract forms. They are worn by women who work in construction, by women who work in offices and stores, and women who are housewives and mothers. Likewise, the salwar kameez comes in a variety of bright and bold colours, pinks and purples, lime green and gold, brilliant blue and turquoise, and I have even seen outfits that could be described as garnet and gold. I am afraid that it makes our Canadian office dress – the standard black pants for women and men, with a subdued and solidly-coloured shirt – look positively boring by comparison.
This love of colour extends also to architecture. The standard Indian home or apartment building is manufactured of concrete, or concrete blocks with a stucco or concrete/plaster facing. The whole is then painted, in lime green or pink or purple or turquoise, and these houses in such different colours sit beside each other looking like a vivid display of paint varieties available.
This love of colour extends also to architecture. The standard Indian home or apartment building is manufactured of concrete, or concrete blocks with a stucco or concrete/plaster facing. The whole is then painted, in lime green or pink or purple or turquoise, and these houses in such different colours sit beside each other looking like a vivid display of paint varieties available.
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| even the homes are colourful |
The homes seem to be designed for maximum air flow, with windows that open wide but are often set back under balconies or roof lines so that the sun does not shine directly in. They are small places, often with space for outdoor living (eating, hanging laundry) on the roof, and many have water and waste water pipes attached to the outside of exterior walls, something we could never get away with in Canadian winters.
It has been interesting to see the various animals that pass through town, particularly through the industrial area where we have been staying and studying, as the shepherds and goatherds and others move them along to different grazing areas, and in the case of cows, for milking. Water buffalo are not at all uncommon here, and I had a very close encounter with them the other day. Several times I have been forced to move off the sidewalk or to the other side of the road when a herd of water buffalo come through, but on one occasion, it was the closest encounter so far: I had stopped near Hebbal Lake to take a picture of a small flock of green bee-eaters clustered together on one branch. The breeze was moving the branch, and I was patiently waiting, and concentrating intensely, on holding the camera stock-still with its telephoto lens at full extent, and also waiting for the right moment when the breeze stopped moving the branch and the picture was framed the way I wanted it. A herd of buffalo was coming up very quietly, as they were walking on a dirt path, and suddenly I heard a shout – the drover, at the back, trying to move them aside, just as the lead buffalo very gently nudged my elbow with his snout and just kept slowly walking forward.
It has been interesting to see the various animals that pass through town, particularly through the industrial area where we have been staying and studying, as the shepherds and goatherds and others move them along to different grazing areas, and in the case of cows, for milking. Water buffalo are not at all uncommon here, and I had a very close encounter with them the other day. Several times I have been forced to move off the sidewalk or to the other side of the road when a herd of water buffalo come through, but on one occasion, it was the closest encounter so far: I had stopped near Hebbal Lake to take a picture of a small flock of green bee-eaters clustered together on one branch. The breeze was moving the branch, and I was patiently waiting, and concentrating intensely, on holding the camera stock-still with its telephoto lens at full extent, and also waiting for the right moment when the breeze stopped moving the branch and the picture was framed the way I wanted it. A herd of buffalo was coming up very quietly, as they were walking on a dirt path, and suddenly I heard a shout – the drover, at the back, trying to move them aside, just as the lead buffalo very gently nudged my elbow with his snout and just kept slowly walking forward.
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| water buffalo |
I stepped back and the buffalo went by; there were about twelve altogether, and they walked on either side of me as I stood still in the middle of them. The drover came up, dressed in traditional dhoti, kurta and scarf knotted in a turban around his head, with a huge grin on his face. Although he spoke no English, he stopped with me as though in apology, and I showed him on the camera screen the picture I had just taken of the bee-eaters, as well as some others.
There is, of course, much more to tell, about the wonderful staff at Vivekananda Institute of Indian Studies, about Mysore specifically and India generally, and some more stories will be told, perhaps in blogs and others in person. Have patience as you wait for more stories, just as I have learned patience, as well as appreciation for all that is here and even more so, for all that I have at home and often take for granted.
There is, of course, much more to tell, about the wonderful staff at Vivekananda Institute of Indian Studies, about Mysore specifically and India generally, and some more stories will be told, perhaps in blogs and others in person. Have patience as you wait for more stories, just as I have learned patience, as well as appreciation for all that is here and even more so, for all that I have at home and often take for granted.
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