Apologies, as always, for my delinquencies.
I have been recovering from a number of things - Delhi Belly, a busy weekend, and a lot of culture shock. There are days here that my mother and I call "Bad Delhi Days" and I've been having a lot of them in the past week. Actually, pretty much just "Bad India Days".
Fantastically, my weekend started on a high note - we had a wonderful cocktail party on Friday night, and I got to see a lot of people that I haven't seen for at least a year, and some new attaches etc. It was really pleasant, the food was wonderful, and the company even more so. Good friends, as always, stayed until the last, so until midnight we were hearing stories of rugby games and survival food and special forces and so on and so on. The stories that I hear here are stories that nobody would believe, if you didn't hear them from the people who told them. But somehow, here, stories of living on the plains of Africa, the jungles of god-knows where and eating something akin to a pigeon - all start to sound delightfully commonplace, and yet still retain a magic that I would be remiss in trying to explain. So Friday night ended Saturday morning, and we all went to bed happy and full and with laughter.
Saturday was a rare day, weather wise. The sky was perfectly clear, the air was smog free, and it was about 30 degrees. (Funny enough.. I found it a little chilly.) I spent the day with my friend Bryan, sitting on the porch reading in the sun, making cakes and drinking coffee. A very simple, perfect day, in simple, perfect weather. Bryan is getting a suit made at a place in Connaught Circus, so we went to have another fitting done - this little place really does astound me.
It's a sliver of a place, relatively unremarkable from the outside, except for the lovely maroon and gold sign. I'm not entirely sure how Bryan discovered it, or if it's just one of those places like Narnia, through the back of the wardrobe and you're into some place magical. It's got this huge glass door, which allows the beautiful, non-halogen yellow lighting to eminate out, not totally unlike a beacon.
Inside is creamy, smooth shiney marble and long, mahogany counters gaurding shelves of wool and silk and cotton bolts of lovelyness. Run by the perfectly patriarchal storybook father and son, who both studied tailoring on Saville Row, it is like stepping into another era, much less another country. There is always tea to be had, a seat for me to sit on, bolts of fabulous fabric to fondle. The one and only time I got to pick a fabric for a suit, I ended up picking the most expensive one in the shop. After which I was relegated to standing behind Bryan and only having an opinion, not a choice. (For inquiring minds - it was about 40,000 rupees per metre.)
The past times I've been there, I have tea with Ashok, the father, at his desk. I've watched Bryan's suit be assembled on him, litterally, with pins and tailors chalk and a flair that is unimaginable. I sit with Ashok and talk about language and the influence of western culture on India, we laugh about fashion trends and funny news stories. I feel, when in front of him, that just being near his talent and his laughter and his soul is close enough for osmosis - and I may very well absorb him, along with the smell of the wool and the tea and the dust from the chalk. It might be a British tailoring enclave in the heart of Delhi.. and one of my favorite places in my Delhi enclave of memories.
Sunday - Sunday was a bad India Day. Wherein I wonder exactly the point of textbooks, history, truth, honesty, kindness to your fellow man - it all came under glaring scrutiny, brought forth, astonishingly, by the..diatribe.. of one reporter. Who shall remain nameless, out of respect, not for him, but for those who may be invited to his home in the future - because you really shouldn't miss his wifes cooking to avoid him.
There are very few statements in my life that have given me a visceral, bodily, heart stopping reaction. Perhaps, because of the country I grew up in, the democracy I respect and the constitution I believe in - I have not had chance to hear such statements. I think that my throat closed on my butter chicken and my very brain and soul constricted upon hearing this, from a journalist.
" It is very difficult to work in India. Everytime the ruling party changes, I must change my idealogies. I must discover, again, who it is I have to suck up to. "
To which, after I choked down my chicken, Bryan and I both attempted to explain how in OUR democracy, the role of the media is there to question, to be impartial, on the side of the people, to inform of any and all events - not just those that portray the ruling party in a favourable light. How, even when the media might be a tiresome, loathsome machine - it is one that works almost with autonomy. His blank stare will haunt me for ages to come.
Although, after hearing more of what he had to say, I understood. Not where he was coming from, but that he was, in fact, insane. To over generalise completely, and apologies in advance for doing so - there is a very small chip ingrained in practically every Indian's shoulder regarding the British, and what they have, or have not done, for India. Picking up almost any textbook, there is not a lot of favourable light to be shone on the Raj, from them building a railway here, to starting exporting, to the traffic circles they implemented - the list goes on. We were told how they invented a caste of pickpockets, and how immoral that was (because, god knows, there was already so many invented by the Indians - if they were going to keep the people down, they didn't want any help from the British). We heard how there was a British created famine that killed 2 million Indians, and went entirely unrecorded by history ("And now, ladies and gentlemen - the Easter Bunny.") We heard how family planning is fully implemented in India (yes - we plan to keep having kids) and that the literacy rate is on the rise (only because it can't fall - and it's only on the rise because of immigration!).
It was disheartening to see somebody, who should have been out there, getting the facts, the truths - conceding that the only news he got was from other reporters, that he never really spoke with anyone in the general populous. And who led me to believe, that he is not the only journalist who operates this way - he isn't a lone ranger, a crazy ace, the exception to the rule. And this is, I might add, a distinguished, well recorded, well paid, intelligent (though nutty) young man, who can quote Wordsworth and wants to break the caste system.. as soon as he stops bragging about how he married up into the highest caste. My heart was broken.
But, today starts anew. It's a little chilly, and the rain has blown in full force. I've got a tonne of books to read, and can't think of a better day to do it. I miss you all - a little more these past few days. Take care everyone, and while you're at it, turn on CNN /CBC and say a little prayer.
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