Paul in India

A Normal Day in India

Michael Jackson is dead. I can’t believe it. He is dead in India too, but no one here seems to be really that interested. I was shocked to find out this morning when I woke up, and like most people, a little gutted. Straight away, I looked around in vain for someone to talk to, as is yer want when something mad happens. This is the lot of someome living in a hotel by themselves. So, like Alan Partridge, I tried talking to the guy at the breakfast counter. ‘Michael Jackson dead! I can’t believe it!‘. He just beamed at me and said, ‘Yes sir!‘ Not to be put off, I tried with the girl behind at reception: ‘Michael Jackson is dead! I mean,.... Wacko Jacko… Y’know, cos… Its like .... GOD!..... Y’know?‘ She looked at me with concern and said, ‘You liked him, sir?‘ ‘No! But thats not the point….‘ It was the main headline on the news channels here, but no one seemed that bothered. I looked outside, and no one was rolling around the streets crying, like I imagine they were in the streets of Derry, Paris and Albania. 

I was interested in the effect it would have over here, because I’m not sure just how far western music and culture permeates in India. I have heard very little western music- apart from Akons ‘I wanna make love’ over and over again. They have Hollywood films, but don’t show them on the main channels. The real stars here are the cricket stars and the Bollywood stars. Bollywood films are shown all day on a bunch of channels, and I now recognise a few faces from their endorsements. I have seen two of them, one male and one female, advertising ‘skin whitening’ cream. I couldn’t believe it. Of course this is only the same principle as the Clifford brothers using fake tan or sun beds, but at first I thought this was a parody on Western vanity. Just what is the perfect skin colour then?  The Indian cricket Captain, Dhoni, is the in the news at the moment for reneging on a deal to spend 5 days filming a commercial for soap powder in Karnataka. Straight after the news bulletin, Dhoni is on tv endorsing a mobile phone, followed by an ad with Sashin Tendulkar, India’s greatest ever batsman.

India made English its official language about 10 years ago. The news and sports channels are 50/50 English and Hindi, but the rest of the channels are in Hindi. I had hoped to learn some Hindi whilst I was here, but the in the area I’m staying in, people speak Kannada, a completely different language to Hindi. Even the Indian guys who arranged my placement don’t speak a word. This is the same in most areas in India, with English and Hindi vying with the local language. In Goa they speak Konkanni, in Mumbai, Marathi. Perhaps this was a motivation for choosing English when deciding on a nationwide language. In the media, the English they speak is very formal. I wonder if this is the way it is taught, or if it is somehow brought from translation from Hindi. ( In the Gaeltacht, a lot of people speak English, but use some Irish grammar. That sort of thing I’m on about). This was an article in yesterdays Deccan Herald:

Confesses to Murder

A man who allegedly made a vain bid to create a scene of natural death after murdering his wife, has been arrested by Udayagiri police on Tuesday.
Mohammed Shafi (30), a coolie, is the accused, and his wife Ghaur Khanum (26) is the victim. The couple were residing in Shanti Nagar in the city. Police said, after courting for a few years, the two had entered wedlock eight years ago. The relationship turned sour subsequently with the couple quarreling over trivial issues. On June 17 too, they had a heated argument over an issue before retiring for the day. Shafi, who was fuming against his wife strangled the latter to death with her veil when she was asleep around 3.30am. Fearing trouble, he allegedly bolted from the house. Shafis mother who woke up to a sound went to the room only to find Khanum wailing in pain. Surprisingly she alone rushed her to a doctor in the vicinity, where she was declared brought dead.
Khanums father Ayaz Khan who got suspicious informed Udayagiri police. In his complaint he had suspected it to be murder. Acting on this, the police had registered the case under section 174© of IPC. During interrogation, Shafi spilled the beans and confessed to having murdered his wife. The police were waiting for the post mortem report to arrest the accused. The report says the victim was ‘pressed’ to death.

The big news story here is the late Monsoon. It hasn’t rained much at all this week, and people are starting to panic. There are ‘Water Wars;‘ in Dehli, and three people have been stabbed to death. Each year, the monsoon has been getting later, and less intense (This is actually related to the work I’m doing). Incidentally, when they talk about the Monsoon, they don’t say ‘The Monsoon’, or ‘A Monsoon’, they just say, ‘Monsoon’. as if it is a person that is missing or a month late. Like, ‘Monsoon was already here last year’. This makes it even more worrying. One headline read ‘Monsoon plays truant’. Bad Monsoon.

I have now arrived in Bangalore, the silicone valley of India. Some people refer to it as the centre of the Earth, as they make all sorts of shiny clever things here. It is very much a boom town, the Indian equivalent of Letterkenny ( without the great options for sandwiches, Karl), and the traffic is nearly as bad. There is a bad smog problem, as there are 6 milion people here, and as the workforce is young, almost as many motorbikes. There was a ‘smogometer’ on the news today with grades running from Harmless, through Average, High, Concerning, Dangerous, Alarming, to Emergency. Dehli was well into the ‘Emergency’ bracket. Yikes! Thats bad, right?

I am only today feeling ok again after that nasty old jungle flu ( look, it MAY have been swine flu, lets not make a big deal out of it yeah, get over it, roll with it, we move on, come on) , although my sweating patterns are still up the left. My entire body now sweats through my legs between 4 and 5 am. It worked out well though, because, this week I was travelling by myself, and was able to just spend two days alone in a hotel ( hence the two posts in two days). It would have been a nightmare in Manipal, with cold showers, and sharing a room. Having said that, my room mate Taygun, is a very considerate guy. There’s a lot to this man I’m finding out…

Back in Derry, we would call Taygun ‘A wil’ man’, or, ‘Some boy’. He is a Turkish Nationalist, and is obsessesd with Turkish Military history. He is a self confessed computer geek, and plays war games constantly. When we were camping, he shared a tent with Peter, a man who wants only peace. All night, there were cries of misery and shame from the tent as Taygun applied the turkish army equivalent of dead legs and chinese burns to my android loving friend. Happily, Peter can stand up for himself though. He has come out of his shell a lot, and has started to swear:

‘Owww! What the fuck Taygun?! What the fuck is wrong with you? Why are you so fucking aggressive?!
‘Its just my nature I guess’
Well, its not my fucking nature, so fuck off man! What the fuck is wrong with you?!.

However, there is a less malevolant side to the man. A few days ago, he said to me:

Hey Paul, you ok man?
Yeah Taygun, fine. Thanks for asking.  A bit of sunburn maybe, but I’m ok. You?
I’m ok. You need any support?
Any….? Um… Uhhhhhh… you mean with my internet?
No, you know, support. You need any help with anything? Emotions?
Ummm, I don’t think so….I’m all set, I think.  Emmmm…. But thanks man, I appreciate it. Do, um… you…..need…...any…...support?
No thanks. But let me know if you need any support.

Before I got choked up I had to remind myself that the same boy would happily take to my parents kitchen with a scimitar if Turkey required it. He also made sure to tell me that he would miss me when I was in Bangalore. Are all Turks this complicated? I hope so.

I just went for dinner, ( Steak. Christ!  ), and there was a power cut in the middle of my meal. There are power cuts constantly in the rainy season, I counted seven in my hotel room in Mysore. (Frustrating when you’re trying to flick through a hundered channels of cricket and bollywood films all day). In the dark, the owner came to talk to me:

‘You are coming from sir?‘
‘Ireland. Northern Ireland.‘
‘And your good name sir?‘
‘Paul, nice to meet you’ * shakes hands in the dark*
‘How old?
‘29’
‘Married sir?‘
‘Ah, no, I’m trying my best!‘
‘Girlfiend is it?‘
‘Ah ... No actually’.

Here he was stuck for words, and shifted uncomfortably between his feet. My mouth was full, so I couldn’t help him. Then it struck him:

‘And MIchael Jackson is Dead!!‘

In my room tonight, I stuck on the news, and text messages were pouring in from MJ fans. One read:

‘We love you Michael. We have lost a heart throb to heart attack’.