Life and death in Delhi
There are apparently in the region of 36,000 weddings being celebrated in Delhi alone this December since it’s the first auspicious time after a long period of ill-omen.
This is one particular road where the trees bordering each side had been decked with lights. Whether because of a single, very high profile, wedding or because it was the venue of many I know not. We heard stories of people running from one wedding to another all day long, of displays of unbelievable extravagance and wealth.
This picture also illustrates one of the aspects of Delhi most firmly seared onto my consciousness – the driving. You would not be mistaken in your impression from the photograph above that the taxi in which I am travelling is headed directly towards the oncoming vehicle and both are in the middle of the road. This is absolutely normal.
My introduction to Delhi driving was of course the taxi trip from the airport during which the vehicle I was in attempted to pass a very large lorry which was obviously and inexorably heading into the same space. (Words like “lane” or “carriageway” or even “side of the road” are pretty meaningless in the overall context so I’m not using them.) The driver only abandoned his move when one side of the car was scraping horribly against the concrete carriage divider and the other was scratching squealingly against the side of the lorry. The damage, examined at the next petrol station, was extensive.
For this to happen once might have been deemed bad luck, but the journey back was equally eventful. This time the driver, whose lack of skill and erratic behaviour had already had me blanching in the back on several occasions, smashed with a glancing blow into some other moving object which may or may not have been a motor cyclist, ripping off the left hand wing mirror, leaving long scratches along both left-hand windows and a grinding sound from the left-hand front wheel.
The extent of the damage, the smashed lights, the crumpled wheel-arch, were not totally visible until we arrived at the airport. The driver did not even slow down, never mind stop, and I in my pusillanimousness neither said nor did anything either other than crouch even lower in the middle of the back seat and hope the journey would be over quickly.
Two in the morning
Or 0156 to be exact. There is a noise from the boys’ room. Then a loud and imperious summons. A boy has vomited. He’s proud of the fact that he has not done so in his bed. I’m less impressed that he’s done it over the side of the top bunk all over the railway set laid out on the floor below.
I pad downstairs in search of disinfectant and a bowl. And discover that an animal has shat all along the corridor. With my feet. Which are bare.
In other news, my shoulder is a lot less painful and inhaling no longer results in stabbing sensations. Which means that I am now able to
Breaming
Flipping the meat off the bream with his knife he mused aloud about the journey.
“If you look on the map there’s nothing but trees. All green. And my time is limited. Damn and blast the traffic”.
This last imprecation was understandable in the circumstances. Due to fly to Libanda he had missed his plane by minutes. Many times before he had cut it fine, arriving late and clattering down, down, down the dark wooden escalators leading to the blue-lit check-in desks with his bag banging behind him. Such a slow and incongruously old-fashioned mode of moving, he always thought, as he gripped the worn hand-belt. More fit for an underground railway system than an airport.
Packing might also be to blame. Packing late, packing too much, unpacking and repacking obsessively. “Take it away” she had said. “All of it”.
There was so much of him had been left deliberately, and hopefully, in nooks and crannies, here and there, distributed between family and friends. Books, clothes, old photographs, boxes of music. Set down as remote roots, bonds. Nobody wanted them. Most had already been returned with varying degrees of civility. He picked carefully around the remaining caches, wondering how much to take, what to leave behind and whether another piece of the moss binding him to – what? security? a sense of belonging, somewhere, mattering, to someone? – would be prised from the mortar and fall to the ground. So much already lay withered, so few small patches remaining.
One result was the huge canvas bag which lay like an enormous brown dog at his feet. Much of his life lay inside it, organised into a complex hierarchy of transparent plastic bags of varying sizes. There was, he hoped, something for every eventuality and all arranged according to a complex law based on the probability of need and projected required speed of access.
It had been a change in this delicate equation which had meant he was late for the bus which was late for the train which was late for the second bus which disgorged him at the airport too late even for his practised breezy traveling persona to get him through to the departure gate.
There had been a story, in the news, of a woman whose life was saved by the insertion of a biro tube into her throat to act as an airway when she was in danger of choking to death. He had a biro but it was not among the emergency equipment. He kept a fibre-tipped pen to hand because it wasn’t prone to leaking and reacting badly to the rigours of changes in cabin pressure. But it had the wrong sort of tubing. Should he have a biro in his closest-to-hand-bag? and if so, with or without the slender column of unreliable ink?
“At least there was no hold-up with the visa” he said, pushing his now empty plate across the cloth towards her.
“They’ve got to know me there. Almost like visiting friends. ‘Strordinary place, the Libandan embassy. You ever been there?”
She shook her head.
“Huge town house. Not far from one of the palaces, you know, wide streets, big cars. Set back from the road. Completely empty of course. You have to knock and ring at the gate for an eternity before anyone comes. They don’t expect punters. Nobody wants to go there. When you do get in you’re escorted to a waiting room tricked out with a baby-blue leather three-piece suite and a massive marble-topped coffee table. Thick-pile cream carpet covered in dust and dead flies. Surreal.” He shook his head slightly.
“Must be an odd job. Set up in luxury by one corrupt dictator, serving out visas for visits to his killer. No money to send out someone new. No money to go home. That house must be worth millions. Chickens in the garden. I’m surprised none of the knobs in the other houses has complained. Maybe their walls are too high to see. Or maybe the chickens have diplomatic immunity!” He barked a rasping laugh.
“What are you going to do now?” she asked. This was approaching dangerous territory. She knew he had nowhere to stay, had given up his rented room; knew too that she had space to offer and wouldn’t; felt he knew this and resented his absence of reproach, her own gratitude for it. But she wanted to know.
Opening one of the many zips in the bag he extracted a map, wrestled and reconfigured its concertina folds and smoothed it across the table in front of them.
“See, this is where I was going to fly to”, jabbing the left edge of the exposed section. “Can’t get a refund on the ticket so I’m a bit short of the readies right now. There’s a boat over, but it lands up here”, jabbing a spot on what appeared to be a coastline near the bottom of the sheet. “But than what. There’s nothing there. Just all these bloody trees.” He rubbed the ball of his thumb moodily across the green print on the paper as though he could rub it away. And reveal what, she wondered, watching him. What was the contour and cartography of his heart’s desire.
“I must go now,” she said, getting up hastily and pulling on her coat. “Stay here – feel free” she added, gesturing with the flat of her hand as though ordering a dog to lie down when she saw him collect himself to rise. “It’s comfortable and warm. And get in touch when you know what your plans are.” She waved, a perfunctory window-wipe of a wave, turned hastily and walked quickly away.
He took her advice. His head laid to one side on the hard wood at the back of the chair, he gazed through the window out into the city sky growing darker and deeper as the winter light faded. The moon, a white semicircle, seemed embraced by the arms of the tree outside. He sighed. How often he had looked at it, bordered by so many different frames of circumstance and surrounding.
Sometimes, on the runway, in a small plane, the shuddering held-back force before takeoff felt like the tension of a huge catapult stretched to maximum tautness. Sometimes, eyes closed, the whoosh and hum of a large plane was the steeply curved launch of a ski jump. But that parting, the moment of peeling back space between earth and sky, never, he now knew, led anywhere other than here.
The moon remained as it had ever been. Cold, lifeless, utterly alone.
Shouldering the burden
Not a wonderful weekend. This is merely a vent. Do not read it. It does not add to the sum of human happiness in any way at all other than the faint and passing relief obtained by one who vents.
Saturday.
Live-in ex is unclear about his activities. “Saturday night?” and “Sunday” on the list of “when I’m going to be out” has, on Saturday morning, turned into “away for the weekend”. But departure time and the fact that this involves taking the car are not mentioned.
The latter is only revealed when I am about to depart, in the car, with firstborn to take him to a party on the other side of London. I offer to go in my van and take secondborn as well so l-ie can depart in the car at some still unspecified time. Secondborn has tantrum of Brobdignagian proportions. L-ie suggests I take firstborn in the car and he waits to leave until I get back. Twenty minutes into the journey my mobile rings. L-ie says secondborn is abjectly apologetic about being so difficult and is prepared to go in the van. Suggests I turn back. I refuse.
Drive firstborn to birthday party. One hour. During journey firstborn informs me that he’ll be staying for a sleepover. Until that point my instructions were “pick-up time 5.30pm”. No pyjamas, no toothbrush, no flannel, no advance notice = no sleepover I say.
Drive back from dropping firstborn at party. One hour.
On the way back I realise that the friend with whom l-ie is spending the weekend lives a short distance from the venue of the party. I reflect on the synergies that could have been achieved had l-ie not been the sort of person whose inflexible default position is that it is my job to transport children.
I have a new ailment – a pain in the socket of my left shoulder. It is exacerbated by driving.
Two hour break at home before having to embark on the two-hour cross-London odyssey once more, this time in the van. No heating, no power steering and no functioning petrol gauge. It indicates a completely empty tank. Secondborn’s tantrum before leaving is, mercifully, of slightly smaller dimensions than his morning version.
Half an hour into the journey a new noise joins the cacophony of loud sounds that is part of the charm of driving an ancient VW camper van. There is a hole in the exhaust.
We have just backed into a tiny parking space outside the party venue when my mobile rings. It is firstborn, begging, pleading on his bended knees, to be allowed to stay for the sleepover since the mother of celebrant said sleepware etc could be provided. I point out, at some length and rather forcefully, that I have just driven an hour across London and am parked immediately outside the house it being the time I was told to pick him up. I further indicate that, had such permission been sought precisely one hour previously it would have been far more likely to be granted. Further begging ensues. We agree that he owes me, big time.
Drive back from failing to pick up firstborn from party. One hour. Hole in exhaust sounds bigger. Petrol gauge still registers absolute zero. Which reflects the temperature inside the van. Secondborn has a tantrum because his feet are freezing. Can barely hear his screams above the sound of the broken exhaust. Decide against stopping for petrol since this would necessitate turning the engine off and thus rendering the screams audible.
We watch Gremlins 2. I decide that on balance I would rather be driving my camper van along the arctic circle.
The pain in my shoulder has spread from the socket along the top of the shoulder, up the left side of my neck and is now also drilling holes in the back of the base of my skull with a blunt, off-centre bit mounted in a hand-drill as well as stabbing red-hot needles into the joint itself. Wake up repeatedly throughout the night as I try, during sleep, to get into my preferred position on my left side – impossible because of the pain.
Sunday
Set out again to pick up firstborn from sleepover. We leave an hour later than we should do because the pain in my shoulder is so debilitating I have to take aspirin and rub in a topical anti-inflammatory (best before date: May 2005) and then wait for them to work.
Wrap secondborn in many layers of warm clothes and several pairs of socks. Discover I left the van’s lights on all night. By some miracle the battery is not absolutely flat and the vehicle actually starts. Eventually. There is a hole in the roof probably in about the same place as the hole in the exhaust beneath. Sound roars through the latter. Water leaks through the former as the torrential rain hammers on the roof almost drowning out the engine and exhaust noise.
Due to the lateness I decide to continue ignoring the zero petrol indication. We drive, for an hour, across London. On arrival firstborn informs me that he’s lost his mobileĀ somewhere in the house. Which is large. I sit in the van repeatedly dialling his number from my own mobile until he locates his phone. This seems to take several hours. On the way back we go to the nearest petrol station where we have to queue for ten minutes to get to a pump. Maybe the gauge isn’t so inaccurate after all – it takes more than 50 litres to fill the tank.
Drive home, bothborns tantruming because I refuse to buy crisps and sweets from the petrol station. One hour. I can’t even sigh any more because, bizarrely, breathing in causes exquisite pain in the shoulder.
Happy techno gadget love joy
When your day starts out crap there’s nothing like receiving a small (and not very expensive) bit of kit in the post.
Which, you will have correctly inferred, is what happened to me today. One of these babies plopped onto the doormat in a padded envelope. And that’s because I was so excited by the pre-launch spec that I pre-ordered.
It arrived while I was conversing (via IM) with my colleague the similarly techno-joyful Georgia, and she demanded proof of its pudding.
Thus it was that while visiting another former colleague (see previous entry for more), Kevin Anderson, who’s also a good friend of Global Voices, I shoved my new toy under his nose for demonstration purposes, reviewable here.
Not bad for something so small, I think you’ll agree. And at the low quality setting. I’m highly pleased.
And while there I was also able to take some pictures for Jeremy of the Ken Saro-Wiwa memorial sculpture about which he writes here and then here.
Hi Jeremy! Hope they give some idea of how it’s bedding down in its surroundings.
Al-Jazeera English launches
A fascinating development on the international media scene. And exciting for me to see that not one but two former colleagues from Focus on Africa are among the reporters highlighted in the first minute or so of the video – Farai Sevenzo and Rageh Omaar. And I know of at least one other who is a correspondent for them in Europe.
I’m watching the process with great interest, although unfortunately I can’t actually watch the channel itself since I don’t have a satellite dish.
Rather how I feel
The sauna's on fire!
Or a week in the life of someone who looks like they have one, however briefly.
Saturday 4 November – a UK bloggers’ meet-up. My first ever. I had already met a limited number of the people there and spoke only to them. With the exceptions of Robin (whom I read regularly) and Clare (whom I didn’t). Truth to be told I spent as much time as possible with Bernard who is the most delightful, adorable, sociable, interested and engaging young man.
Monday 6 November – on the guest list and off to the Groucho, as already related. At length.
Wednesday 8 November – met, finally, a blogger who although physically somewhat diminished was entirely wonderful, clever, funny, and someone I’m so happy to know offline as well as on. It’s difficult not to say something trite about him. So instead read his own, extremely untrite, words linked to above. In the evening I went to the LSE and listened to Alain de Botton‘s talk based on his new book, then recorded an interview with him (which may or may not appear on the web at some point). Snap review? oh ok then… although I admire his ability to bring complex ideas to an audience which might not otherwise be exposed to them (a populariser in the best sense of the word) he’s bitten off more than he can chew with the phenomenology of architecture and to concentrate only on the facade at the expense of space and all other aspects of architecture is… facile. And it’s totally eurocentric.
Friday 10 November – A delicious evening with C at Octave which was hosting Anita Wardell on this the opening night of the London Jazz Festival.
We ate a selection of animals carefully carved and introduced to culinary procedures for varying lengths of time (my venison was very rare). The music was excellent although this was the most up-tempo and altogether joyous scat-filled version of the jazz staple Willow Weep for Me I’ve ever heard. And the drummer of the quartet looked disturbingly like one of my disturbing and long-ago ex-boyfriends.
Saturday 11 November – More jazz. Given the choice by H of Norwegian or Cameroonian jazz I was decidedly in favour of the latter. During my recent brief sojourn to Norway I had been given a triple CD of the country’s jazz highlights as selected by the Ministry of Tourism and, having listened to all of it, felt it had filled my quota for the year. Besides I’m very fond of Manu Dibango (have I ever mentioned drinking champagne with him on my birthday, outside under the brilliant stars and velvet sky of the southern hemisphere?) Unfortunately Richard Bona was already sold out so we went, somewhat hesitantly, to the Finnish experimental contemporary big band instead. It was absolutely brilliant.
About 20 men in not-quite-matching black suits mostly looking like bank clerks making a sublime sound of great complexity. The imaginative and catchy title of this post is actually that of the UMO Jazz Orchestra‘s latest record, or in Finnish Sauna palaa! The album’s tracks are all inspired by Finland’s national writer Aleksis Kivi – read the background and listen to a couple of the track here.
I’ve spent today recovering with a little light housework interspersed with the crossword. Given that my life consists of childcare, animal husbandry and work it’s unlikely that I shall experience such a social whirl for at least another year. Which is probably a good thing since, unaccustomed as I am to leaving the house, I was poleaxed by the price of everything and will have to allow my wallet at least that long to recover.
The sauna’s on fire!
Or a week in the life of someone who looks like they have one, however briefly.
Saturday 4 November – a UK bloggers’ meet-up. My first ever. I had already met a limited number of the people there and spoke only to them. With the exceptions of Robin (whom I read regularly) and Clare (whom I didn’t). Truth to be told I spent as much time as possible with Bernard who is the most delightful, adorable, sociable, interested and engaging young man.
Monday 6 November – on the guest list and off to the Groucho, as already related. At length.
Wednesday 8 November – met, finally, a blogger who although physically somewhat diminished was entirely wonderful, clever, funny, and someone I’m so happy to know offline as well as on. It’s difficult not to say something trite about him. So instead read his own, extremely untrite, words linked to above. In the evening I went to the LSE and listened to Alain de Botton‘s talk based on his new book, then recorded an interview with him (which may or may not appear on the web at some point). Snap review? oh ok then… although I admire his ability to bring complex ideas to an audience which might not otherwise be exposed to them (a populariser in the best sense of the word) he’s bitten off more than he can chew with the phenomenology of architecture and to concentrate only on the facade at the expense of space and all other aspects of architecture is… facile. And it’s totally eurocentric.
Friday 10 November – A delicious evening with C at Octave which was hosting Anita Wardell on this the opening night of the London Jazz Festival.
We ate a selection of animals carefully carved and introduced to culinary procedures for varying lengths of time (my venison was very rare). The music was excellent although this was the most up-tempo and altogether joyous scat-filled version of the jazz staple Willow Weep for Me I’ve ever heard. And the drummer of the quartet looked disturbingly like one of my disturbing and long-ago ex-boyfriends.
Saturday 11 November – More jazz. Given the choice by H of Norwegian or Cameroonian jazz I was decidedly in favour of the latter. During my recent brief sojourn to Norway I had been given a triple CD of the country’s jazz highlights as selected by the Ministry of Tourism and, having listened to all of it, felt it had filled my quota for the year. Besides I’m very fond of Manu Dibango (have I ever mentioned drinking champagne with him on my birthday, outside under the brilliant stars and velvet sky of the southern hemisphere?) Unfortunately Richard Bona was already sold out so we went, somewhat hesitantly, to the Finnish experimental contemporary big band instead. It was absolutely brilliant.
About 20 men in not-quite-matching black suits mostly looking like bank clerks making a sublime sound of great complexity. The imaginative and catchy title of this post is actually that of the UMO Jazz Orchestra‘s latest record, or in Finnish Sauna palaa! The album’s tracks are all inspired by Finland’s national writer Aleksis Kivi – read the background and listen to a couple of the track here.
I’ve spent today recovering with a little light housework interspersed with the crossword. Given that my life consists of childcare, animal husbandry and work it’s unlikely that I shall experience such a social whirl for at least another year. Which is probably a good thing since, unaccustomed as I am to leaving the house, I was poleaxed by the price of everything and will have to allow my wallet at least that long to recover.
frizzyLogic 