EUNOIA

 

 

NATURAL BEAUTY

Sitting on top a fort in Gwalior looking west from five until six-thirty pm there is a most magnificent sunset. The sounds of the city below waft up intermittently, nothing can stop the shrill of the train whistle or the honking of horns. The heat slowly dissipates from the day as the sun sits on the face in warmth. Bird song escalates as roosting starts. A parrot's call and a flash of lime green passes by, and again. As the sun descends the bright orange tones are replaced by burnt umber, the dust of the day creates beauty as the hanging sphere hovers, slowly sinking. A light breeze passes over the hill bringing floral aroma, somewhere jasmine is in flower. It is too early for night queen. A few monkeys play on the fort wall and stray well fed dogs find a lay and curl in. The sky changes tones again. The blue is washing out, clearing with a pink becoming dominant briefly until it is difficult to name the translucent hue. The breeze stiffens as the land cools. The stones continue to radiate heat so the contrast becomes noticeable. 

The veil of night transits as the sun falls further beyond the horizon and the earth turns. Within an hour coming from the east an equally vibrant orange ball ascends. It is a double take as the shape becomes whole and intense offering illumination for the evening. The breeze has a gentle constancy and is encompassing, like a blanket, slowly wrapping around. The moon loses size and the colour drains as it rises into the darkness. Sounds of nature are quieter. Walking under a tree a sound similar to rain can be heard. Stopping it becomes evident this music comes from long seeds pods spiralling having been released from the grip of the tree. It is a paper thin dry shell encasing a dozen seeds or more encased in separate compartments. The slow spiral shakes the seeds producing the gentle sound until the ground claims.

EUNOIA

CHAWRI BAZAR - OLD DELHI

On the hunt for water colour paper takes me to Old Delhi, Chawri Bazar. This is one of the worlds largest paper, card and stationery centres in the world. A quick metro ride and I am ascending four levels into the busyness of the streets. The metro is located under Old Delhi. Separate small entrances on street corners allow entry or exit from the metro rather than the more expansive egress of other metro stations. 

To says the area is crowded is an under statement. At first glance is seems as if boxes have been stacked one atop the other held in place by gravity. The spaces, houses, businesses, offices maximise the use of minimal space. At ground level it is a challenge to walk a straight line, whether skinny pavement or crowded road. Shopfronts start with a sellers bench abutting the pavement behind which he is seated, merchandise spread across the walls or in display cabinets, dusty, ancient. Fans overhang the seller, the width between two and three metres. Shelving reaches from floor to ceiling and extends into the cavernous space, light struggling to illuminate. 

It is evident this is serious business with everyone vying for trade and specialise in stock. Some caves filled with bright colour of many and various patterned wrapping paper. Another shimmers with layer upon layer of foil wrapping paper, silver base providing reflective qualities. Cellophane sits like stained glass in thick slabs, colours alternating. Another merchant specialises in paper of all types, thicknesses, selling only A1 by sheet or ream. His sample cards rest on the bench held together by a thin round metal ring. Like a tailor enquirers walking away with a sample swatch, information scrawled on one side. Seekers arrive with their own sample trying to match exactly stock which may exist in the interior of the shops. A section of this quarter deals only with cards. Mostly hand made paper, wedding, invitation specialists, decorated with diadems, rich braid, tassels, fabric, beads. The variety is endless. Printing presses can be seen between shops or in the back where the space seems to widen. These are hand presses and electric. Domestic necessities occupy another section selling paper bags awaiting company logo and colours. Folders and school items are evident as you move further down the street and enter into stationery quarter. If you cannot find what your looking for here it is because your exhausted and given up.

The shopfronts are broken by tiny laneways with not enough space for even a cycle rickshaw. Foot traffic only, businesses are actually holes in the wall with enough space for the seller to sit and conduct business stock climbing the walls. Each alleyway houses a public urinal which you are aware of well before reaching. The laneways are dark, covered mostly overhead by the structures above and wires reaching like aerial fig roots looking for the ground. These seek the electricity poles on the main street and fight to tap into power, whether legally or illegally. I'm not sure how anyone could monitor meter use to send an account. Skulking around the alleyways are human mules looking for work. To move goods in and out of the laneways requires human labour. A donut cushion of twisted fabric to sit on the head on which a crude knock up small pallet rests and the goods, paper products, carefully stacked. It is an art watching them find the central  balance point as they move deftly, with heavy poise, through the laneways dodging everything else happening. 

On the main road, delivery vehicles line both sides of the street leaving enough space down the centre of the road for vehicles to navigate. There are stands of push bikes and motor bikes, between which small chai and snack stalls operate. The next layer consists of flat tray cycle rickshaws empty, or if laden well above the height of the cyclist. Flat tray hand pull carts are three metres long and sixty centimetres wide, low to the road with strong solid steel rims with pieces of tyre adhered to them for some bounce. Two metres are solid tray and one metre is strong slats with lengths of rope used to hold the load. To balance there is an angle stand towards the pulling end. Designed well for their purpose they are useful seats and beds for the porters awaiting custom. The motorised vehicles are variations on an auto rickshaw but designed as a small delivery truck. These green vehicles dominate colour in this area. 

The underdog here is the binding tape. Flat plastic ribbon in several hues are used to wrap, bind and stitch bundles and parcels together. Between the paper stores every now and then is a binding store. Coils of string hang from the walls and ceiling and are sold by the hundreds of metres. Parcel stitchers sit on the narrow pavement or flat trays and wrap paper or card bundles into manageable parcels. Using plastic woven hessian style cloth with six inch long needles to stitch the sides. Other parcels are created by tying string around good and making a handle to carry. The only thing you don't see is the paper maker himself. Down one of the alleyways a guillotinist accurately slices and trims paper and card to precise measurements and he did with the watercolour paper I found, from A1 to A4. 

There is a building ceiling in the area up to four storeys. One intrigues, a Harry Potter four storey stone fronted building amongst the constructs either side. It is out of place and looks to be only six feet wide top to bottom. I am very curious but it is shuttered closed and seems to have been for a long time. Windows on the upper three storeys are caged or barred; Protection from monkeys and thieves. Flashing small LED signs compete with the conglomeration of other signage fighting to advertise location and businesses. Above the paper sellers are quite a few advertising sitars, harmonium, guitars, and tablas as well as import and export offices. Air conditioners hang precariously from windows propped on sturdy, and some not so, brackets taking up the remainder of the wall space.

The local fruit merchant travels down the traffic jam selling strawberries and oranges whilst looking to the end of the street, the Jama Masjid ( mosque ) looms large. The whole area is dominated by Muslims. 

The locals try to engage whilst I am waiting for the paper to be trimmed. They speak in Arabic, establish that I am Australian and try all of their very limited English, teasing and goading each other. They have some Hindi and we communicate, though it is still very much one way and at my expense. They have fun and there is much laughter. Many signs and hand signals are used as well. I am useful as a distraction while they wile away the long wait sitting on their trolleys. 

 

EUNOIA

EARLY MORNING TRAIN JOURNEY

Gwalior, only three and a half hours from New Delhi on the Bhopal New Delhi Shatabdi Express train, 12002. That is unless it has been cancelled. Having secured a seat last week in this chair class aircon train, trouble arose in the Capital.

For the past week the trouble has been escalating. It is concentrated in the State of Haryana, where Delhi is located, but outside of the city itself. The situation has been brewing for some time based in a University that has spread to many Universities through student unions. The papers are filled with stories though none of them clarify for me the base situation. The closest I can come is there is a question of quotas for backward castes that needs to be addressed. There have also been recent suicides over allegations of students cheating in exams, preferential treatment for those that can afford and nepotism. This seems to have reached the lofty heights of terrorism though it has been a media based hype.

There are so many twentyfour hour news channels now in India all competing for the 'scoop'. In this instance unverified footage was broadcast, which may have been doctored, raising tensions even higher about student shouting slogans at rallies. The central figure, the leader of the Uni's student union, came out of hiding Sunday and addressed the gathered crowd. In reading, it is an interesting article which talks about the role media have played in the escalation. The student union leader said he learned much about himself recently through the media and didn't realise that he had ' visited Pakistan twice recently, not having a passport'. He was called the 'Mastermind' rallying seventeen Universities behind him and accused of making eight hundred phone calls, unsubstatiated, including to The Gulf and Kashmir ( which has recently had several terrorist based military deaths during clashes ). The student relates that he has been reduced to his immediate identity, that of Muslim saying that ' for the past seven years , when I've engaged in politics on campus, I haven't thought of myself as a Muslim , I have never projected myself as a Muslim ... For the first time in seven years I have become conscious of being a Muslim, in the past ten days. They are calling me a Pakastani agent anyway.' He came out of hiding when he became fearful for his family who have been receiving death threats with his sister threatened with rape. 

It is easy to rile up the population in India. A secular democracy still very divided between Hindus, Moslems and others. Find a niche to exploit and the media, politicians and the courts seems to get on board for full political advantage. This lead to protests in the universities with students and teachers and then in the community further afield. Roads were blocked for days and hundreds of trains cancelled leaving many people stranded. Like all good capitalists, advantage has been taken, with reports of airlines gouging the price of flights, some up to five times or more the normal fare. Hotels have been doing the same. 

Other political groups are riding the unrest, pushing their agenda, and have became quite militant. There have been nineteen deaths so far. The roads blocked, reports say, thousands of trucks line the roads along with other vehicles caught in the traffic. Protestors tried to dislodge rail tracks, interfere with signals and block rail lines into and out of Delhi. The main source of Delhi's water was hijacked and parts of the Capital ran out of tap water with carriers bringing water to people. This also affected the area I was staying in but fortunately the hotel tanks were full. Not so for some of the residents who lined up in the streets on Sunday and yesterday morning with buckets or anything else that could hold water. The military were airlifted into the militant protest areas once this started. The protestors moved from one section and disrupted another. A call for rest was agreed overnight with protestors giving the Government one month to rectify the claims laid at them.

On checking my PNR status on the official Indian Railways website for today's journey, my train was cancelled. Another search of cancelled trains, bringing me to the same website, stated it was not. With nothing to lose I decided to go to the station arriving at 5.40am, twenty minutes before departure. The train was waiting at Platform number 1. I am seated in C2 carriage, seat ten, window seat, with three other passengers only. There are more attendants and inspectors for the carriage than passengers. Whilst it provides a comfortable journey, where I can spread over three seats, it does lead to forced attention. First I received all the possible English newspapers to read with a bottle of drinking water. My preference is the Times of India. Instead of bringing me a thermos and tea bag, the attendant made chai without sugar. Then lime water was distributed before breakfast. There is a choice of veg or non veg but equally more choice within these categories. I opt for the veg cutlets, potato based patties with some carrots in the mix, accompanied by shelled peas, fresh, plus four french fries, tomato sauce, two slices of brown bread and butter.  The carriage is over catered. I am offered second and thirds. 'No thanks', was not being accepted. I do accept another chai though. 

There are only a few stops on this journey. The longest is Agra. We pull in at 8.20am. It is a five minute stop. This is the train caught by those visiting Agra in one day. The return train is late in the evening giving a whole day in the city.

There are now only two of us in the carriage for remainder of the journey. The train arrives at Gwalior Junction only fifteen minutes late.

EUNOIA

M S DHABHA

The local eating place is a dhaba. A small eatery, all remarkably the same, producing fresh and tasty food.  There is the main cook, the bread maker, servers and those that clean. M S Dhabha Pure Veg is on a busy intersection in Paharganj. The store on the corner, itself, specialises in curd and lassi. This 'hole in the wall' is three metres by ten and seats twenty. The shop front is where the cooking occurs. On one side the tandoor and the other the kitchen with just enough space for patrons to get through. Two exhaust fans over both cooking areas exhaust the direct heat. The shopfront is safeguarded by a roller door yet there is a sixty cm open ventilation space above that vents the rising heat. The floor and walls are covered in marble tiles, easy to hose out and squeegee at the end of the night.

The decor is sparse. In prime place beside the hand wash basin, in front of the cook/owner, is the deity temple box. Within, a small statue and several framed images of gods. The incense tray is well used with evidence of an industrial strength dhoop roll burned to ashes. The evil spirits would have choked on the smoke, so a certainty that none dare venture here.

The tandoor stands a metre high and radiates intense heat. The exterior is metal, interior a clay. The base is filled with gleaming orange coke. Beside is a small table used for making the dough and rolling out either chapati, naan or paratha. A cloth wrapped semi circular hand pad is used for placing the dough in the tandoor and two long prongs used to retrieve from the wall, baked to perfection. The bread maker is skilled and deft at producing quantities of bread on demand. Hanging above the table are whole sheets of newspaper speared on a metal hook; wrapping for takeaway.

The kitchen occupies about one and a half metres of space jutting into the entrance with a length of two metres. It is stainless steel and shows its age. On the street end the bench becomes an L shape and here the main gas burner sits. The cook looks out, in prime position. Atop the bench are seven very large pots, five filled with hot sauces and stocks, to make the variety on the menu, one filled with rice and the other hot water. In front of these sits an array of smaller containers filled with spice. Under the bench, vegetables and pulses have been prepared and are with easy reach. Beside the kitchen entrance is a red esky, where the butter, paneer and curd are stored on ice. Within this cooking area also sits the gas bottle. Hanging on the edge of the bench are small plastic bags and string which forms the takeaway option plus carry bags.

It is a no frills affair and the main client base consists of locals or Indians. This is fast food at its tastiest and best. A balanced meal affordable by most. The menu is limited but not without a range. A two page menu, with a column for paneer based dishes, one for breads, another for vegetables, one for rice options with a choice of thali from basic thru to special, plus drinks. Hot drinks slow up the kitchen and are sourced from the chaiwala. One of the best aspects of this dhabha is they serve, for most of the dishes, half plate options. This allows the individual to have choice. The serves are generous. The half plate is what is often served as a main in restaurants at home. The plate of plain rice, single serve, is far too much for me. 

On arrival a plate of 'salad' and water jug arrives. The salad consists of chopped radish and onions. On the table is a plate of green chilies for those who like it hot, and a small bowl of salt or namak. A menu, pad and pen arrive for you to write the order, delivered back to the cook. No errors here.  He then, with one deep, wide frypan, brings together the order. It is freshly cooked, dish by dish, steaming hot, the pan cleaned with boiling water between dishes. I don't think the pan would cool even once during mealtimes. Stainless steel spoons quickly add the spices, sauces, vegetables or paneer, mixing all together. The bread maker and cook work in unison so all items arrive at the table close together. Butter is generously dolloped into each dish as it makes its way out, for the diner to mix. 

It is fascinating watching the process. It is endless yet at no time is concentration lost even with the humour, laughter and chat between all. The smells of fresh spices hitting the pan is mouth watering. The only problem is you want to try everything. Yet that comes with repeat visits. 

In walking down the street you would not second look these establishments. There is no competing facade to attract, just honest fare and hard workers. 

EUNOIA

PRISONER ON TRAIN

Boarding the train at eleven pm means finding your compartment is a little more difficult. The 12313 Sealdah Rajdhani originated in Calcutta. I have a berth in carriage A1, a two tier aircon sleeper, and the porter has positioned me on the platform where the carriage will stop. Gaya is a busy railway station with trains pulling in every fifteen minutes. The station is alive with passengers waiting to alight trains with food sellers and chaiwalas plying their selection to those waiting and as trains stop. I wait, seated with luggage under a stairway, on the steel girder. Knees around chest, it is so low to the ground, hundreds of interested mosquitos buzzing around looking for a purchase. I position myself with the current novel I am reading perched open on the bags.

Platform One receives all the trains running towards Delhi. There are three Rajdhani trains in a row, starting in various locations, passing through Gaya. From here to Delhi these superfast trains only make four stops. Two trains have come and gone, thinning the people waiting for the 12313. The porters know their stuff, I have come to trust that, though the last two trains, carriage A1, passed by and there was a scramble by those waiting. My train pulls into the station slowly coming to a halt and directly in front of the carriage. Only one door of A1 is open and furthest away from my berth, seat seven. This doesn't please the porter either as he struggles with my bag. Every one has retired. The curtains are drawn the night lights on. The aisle becomes even more compressed like this. I noted, as the train pulled up, that I was at the emergency window which makes it easier to locate. 

It is impossible not to disturb those behind the drawn curtains as light floods in. Three bodies stir as I try and stuff my bag under the seat. There is little room left, like on an airline if you are last on, overhead is full. It took a little effort but managed. I paid the porter, who wanted to argue the price, but I dismissed him. A fair price was paid and he knew. 'Hello' a voice says from the top bunk. I respond to the face poking out of the white sheet. Some natter between them saying they couldn't sleep and two get up for a toilet stop, allowing me to arrange myself. Making the bed is first priority. Tucking the bottom sheet in ensures that it is still there in the morning and not a snake up against the wall. It is warm inside and the blanket would be overkill. Shoes off, valuables form the under layer of the pillow for the night, belt off, shirt hanging and ready for bed. I wish I could drift off to sleep immediately but expect the ticket inspector. A head pokes in and it is the carriage attendant wanting to know what I wanted for breakfast, veg or non veg. That means bread and veg cutlet or bread and omelette, with tea. I start to read using the night light hoping the light spill is not too disturbing. It seems my compartment companions have drifted off to sleep and after twenty minutes so do I. No sign of the inspector.

The train speeds up as I start to doze off trying to find the best position, when the train lurches, and I slip forward on the seat, decision made. Face forward. The movement and noise of the train is a lullaby, a steady rhythm, somnus.

Talking and foot traffic suggests morning. My compartment companions awake nattering away. I locate my face washer to liven my face, before greeting them. Three women, I learn they are second and third generation Chinese having migrated to Chennai. Sisters plus mother and daughter. There is a language mix in speaking between three languages, English, Hindi and I assume Bengali. Across in the aisle seats are a mother and son from Delhi. All try hard to persuade the attendant to bring chai but he has a time line. It finally arrives with breakfast as a thermos of hot water, a tea bag and a sachet of whitener. The rest of the breakfast is equally sad. The most exciting thing is tomato sauce on white bread. Luckily we are all carrying food. This leads us onto a discussion of tea especially Darjeerling, green and white and opens up conversation.  Mother and daughter now live in Toronto and are visiting the family in Calcutta. This journey is at the request of the daughter who is at uni. She wants to see the Taj Mahal, so a cross country train ride for a three day visit in Agra before a return by train. 

Many topics are covered in the hours before disembarking in Delhi. The most interesting is about a prisoner transport. At the locked end of the carriage are four uniformed and countless plain clothes officers with one cuffed and chained prisoner. The Canadians were quite concerned explaining this is why they found it hard to sleep last night. When the prisoner was delivered to the train he stared all the passengers down passing through the compartment. There was much to and fro with the officers until curiosity was roused and the daughter and aunt went down to have a closer look at the set up. They returned about half an hour later having been invited to sit and chat with the prisoner by the chief detective. They heard his story.

He was being extradited to Delhi from Bihar where he had been apprehended after escaping from his previous incarceration some time prior. His name was Manoj and apparently he is quite famous. A jewel thief, he posed as domestic help for two years in a family, learning all of the secrets before robbing them. He reportedly managed to get away with fifty three lakh rupees 

( Rs 5300000 ) worth of jewellery. He had a young accomplice who had only been employed as domestic help for ten days and still on the run. 

Manoj explained that he had two wives and seven children, marrying his second young, beautiful wife, recently. Whilst Moslems can marry up to three times it is not law here for Hindus. He was caught because his wife wore some of the jewellery to a wedding and pictures were taken. In the world of increasingly shrinking digital 'degrees of separation' the photographs were seen by someone who recognised the jewellery and that path lead to the thief. He surrendered and confessed but the Police cannot locate the jewels or the funds except for Rs8 lakh. He boasts of having a fortune from previous robberies. A clever man, no doubt, has divided the wealth amongst the family, with little to seize in his name. 

I am told that the Police gave him the keys to the cuffs. They want him to run so they can shoot him. He sits, holding the keys, in the compartment, patient in the knowledge that he will likely get off through the cumbersome legal system and the wealth he has behind him. An unassuming looking man, he knows time is on his side. He will play the game and as he is not a violent offender, with no one physically injured through his escapades. He is confident. 

The remainder of the journey is about the North Eastern States and how beautiful they are. I am encouraged visit. The train arrives half an hour late, close to eleven am, at New Delhi Railway Station. This is perfect timing for me to check into my hotel in Paharganj. 

EUNOIA

CHILD MARRIAGE

The driver, Shyam,  a young man, looked a teenager, yet was twenty two. He studied until matriculation and now had a steady job as a driver and good at it he was.

He has a daughter, eighteen months old. Nothing remarkable until learning he was married at fourteen. His bride was twelve. Child marriage has been frowned on in India for many years yet it still happens. Bihar has the highest rate of childhood marriage with a recent UNICEF report citing it sitting at 67%. The classification is marriage under eighteen. 

Bihar is a 'poor State' in relative comparison to most. Interestingly it also has some of the highest taxes and is reportedly one of the most corrupt. The Naxalites still have strong presence here and people don't venture too far of an evening for fear of being robbed. In Bodhgaya itself there is the presence of many police and military personnel.

Whilst it is viewed as a human rights violation impoverished conditions encourage continuation of the practise. Especially for the families with a daughter as the dowry is cheaper and should there be more, then the tradition of dowry, or 'gifts' to the grooms family, can drain the finances and place the family in a big debt spiral. This does not excuse the practise just places it in a perspective.

In this case the newly wed groom and bride continued to live in their respective family homes until the bride was eighteen when she moved into Shyam's family home. What impact it had on her for six years I do not know.  

I asked him if he was happy and he beamed with pride and broke out a big smile showing me a pic of his child.

Two sides to every story. Personal cultural perspective and life privilege colour vision. In a country where arranged marriages are still the cultural norm and female education qualifications add to marriage eligibility, the female continues to be objectified. 

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Naxalite

EUNOIA

MUSIC

Beautiful music is welcoming, walking off the busy intersection, where cars, motor bikes, push bikes, petrol and battery operated rickshaws plus the odd huge bus earn right of way.  The busiest intersection in Bodhgaya leads toward the pedestrian only esplanade of the Mahabodhi Temple Complex.

'Knock off' brightly coloured croc shoes, compete with knitted warmer footwear for attention, yet nothing beats the peacock feather fans of various sizes. The seller is skilled at getting the highest price from the Asian tourists. They are beautiful constructions of pattern exploiting those found on the peacock feathers. Some are very tightly woven using many feathers and others are quite open just using a concentric pattern. The life span of the feathers is limited but right now the luminescence shines. 

Just outside the complex, a sprawling banyan tree shades a simple amphitheatre seating space which attracts a band of urchins ranging in size from three to ten. It is obvious that elder brothers have been entrusted with younger as they wrestle and play before spotting me and descend wanting to know what I am doing and where I am from. It takes about two minutes before I am draped in boys all vying for attention. One of the older boys takes charge and some order is brought to bear as each tells me his name and what class he attends. The younger ones are dismissed with a wave of the hand, ' not at school '. Three police, carrying a flexible lathi each, make their way over to see what is happening and just stop and listen.

The music continues over all the competing sounds. It emanates, surprisingly, from a row of beggars. Seated in a line, with stainless steel bowls in front of crossed legs, it is a double take that makes me realise that most are blind. Visually they look bedraggled, draped in well worn clothes in need of attention. All are male, the youngest looks twenties, it is difficult to guess the eldest. 

The tabla player provides the tempo for the combined vocal choir of sweet song. I recognise bhagans, religious songs and ragas. An audience gathers, equally attracted to vocal beauty, as the ten buskers harmonise in song. This set over, there is no applause; appreciation is shown through kindness, whether coin, note or food. Personal situation has provided stimulus and allowed a dignity of contributing productively to the lives of others. 

EUNOIA