Christmas in Kolkata

Wow. That’s become my catchphrase among the other volunteers here. It sums up my Christmas in Kolkata. It began on Christmas Eve with a house party in what’s known as the “family” apartment. I don’t make this stuff up. The highlight of the night was when each of us received our Secret Santa presents. I was given a name of another volunteer that I had to buy a present for anonymously. The spend limit was 500 Rs. After a few hours wandering aimlessly through South City Mall, I got Kate a book by an Australian woman travelling through India called “Holy Cow!” I was delighted with what I received from Kate and Ann-Marie: two t-shirts and a book on Kolkata. Myself, Alicia and Ben were out on the (caged) balcony till nearly 3am talking. I tried to sing Fairytale of New York but gave up when I forgot the lyrics.

It was a bright, sunny morning. The buses rumbled past with their conductors warbling the destinations or whatever they say to entice people onto public transport. Taxis beeped or crawled their way down busy streets, looking for passengers. Autos whizzed by carrying far too many people. It was just another normal day in the city. Except it was Christmas Day, an event I usually associate with cold weather and calm surroundings. Nothing shuts this city down except strikes and riots. I was on my way to take an auto to the hospital. I got into the back and smiled at the sign written in front of me. “No Somking.” Naturally, the driver was smoking. I took a photo and the man sitting beside smiled benignly. I arrived at the hospital where I was met by Ann-Marie, a long-term volunteer. She told me that she was on her way to Kasba where we would have dinner and watch a dance performance by the girls there. We rushed upstairs to give the kids their presents before jumping into a taxi. On the way, we picked up Ben, my temporary roommate for Christmas while my usual apartment remains empty for the holidays. He was carrying two large cakes that seemed to be made mostly of air as the boxes were so light. We were dropped outside a water pumping station where we waited for two more girls to show up. I was dressed in a long-sleeved shirt and jeans. The weather was too warm for my regular Christmas attire. We walked down a quiet street that would bring us to the girls’ home at Kasba. We could hear the music before we even saw the building. The roof was hopping. We were offered seats by the kids but it wasn’t long before we were called up to join the dancers. It didn’t matter that I wasn’t half as good as the girls dancing. They just laughed as I attempted to copy their moves. I had no inhibitions. I wasn’t allowed to. Dinner took place on the ground floor in the crèche. We sat around circular tables with chairs meant for infants. The plates were made out of banana leafs stapled together. There was no cutlery. We were served rice, dal, mutton, vegetables and fried potatoes. Eating with the fingers of my right hand was a messy, surreal experience. After two and a half months in this city, I have finally gone native.

At 5.30pm, I went to Punerjibon to celebrate Christmas Day with the boys there. Jitain danced to Beat It by Michael Jackson. I was told he had been practicing for two months. It showed. The cake was then cut and distributed on plates and later, on people’s faces including mine. I gave my camera to some of the boys and made sure the strap was around their wrists before letting them loose. Final tally on my camera from the day was nearly 150 photos. I was having too much fun dancing to worry about it. I did feel slightly ridiculous dancing to Barbie Girl, a perennial favourite among the boys in Punerjibon. We left before nine as everyone was wrecked. It was a memorable and refreshingly different Christmas. There might not have been turkey or any of the other things I enjoy back home. But it was worth it just for the experience alone.

Varanasi

Last Thursday, myself and four other volunteers went to visit Varanasi. This ancient city is located in the densely populated state of Uttar Pradesh, on the banks of the River Ganges. Hindus believe that by dying and being cremated here, they will end the cycle of reincarnation. It’s difficult to describe what I have trouble understanding so I’ll leave it at that. We got an overnight train that I barely slept a wink on. Finally, we arrived and got an auto into the city center. It could only take us so far as the paved streets were barely wide enough for motorbikes. It took us ten minutes of walking through the labyrinthine streets before we reached the hotel. It was worth dodging the cow dung as the view of the Ganges was spectacular. Once we were settled into our rooms, I lay down on the bed and promptly passed out. I woke up a few hours later and went for a walk along the ghats, the steps leading down to the bank of the Ganges where people immersed themselves and washed their clothes in the holy waters. I didn’t so much as dip my toe in it after discovering how polluted the river is. We continued walking until we reached one of the crematorium sites along the river. I was warned not to take photos of the burning pyres. The body is carried down wrapped in brightly-coloured fabrics. It is dipped in the Ganges and placed on top of a pyre. The wood used is precisely weighed beforehand. The eldest son walks around the body seven times and then it is lit. It sounds very morbid but it isn’t as the surroundings bring a sense of peace and calm. We walked back towards the hotel to witness a ceremony that occurs every evening called “Agni Pooja” (Worship to Fire). During the ceremony, we got onto a row boat. I was petrified. Although I can swim, I have this irrational fear of the water. I tensed up every time someone got up to switch positions in the small row boat. I think it’s more to do with falling in fully clothed and drowning. And because the river is a toilet. I was glad when I set foot on the ghats. After the ceremony, the street lights came on and robbed the city of its air of mystique. We ate dinner on a rooftop restauraunt that gave us an eerie view of a dark, shrouded city. We were occasionally distracted by the fireworks exploding in the distance.

I spent Saturday doing as little as possible. After a walk along the ghats, we went for lunch in quite possibly the most uncomfortable restaurant I’ve ever been in. There were no chairs. There were only cushions on the floor with small tables raised about a foot off the ground. This would have been alright if we had space to stretch out our legs. We didn’t because we were sandwiched in a narrow room barely three foot wide. The only way to sit down was by crossing my legs. I had to stand up periodically just to avert cramps. However, we did get a great view of the monkeys and I had a delicious chicken curry so it wasn’t all bad. I still don’t know how Indians sit in these positions for long periods of time. The weekend passed far too quickly but I was glad I got a chance to unwind. It was going so well until the time came to go home. Our train was scheduled to leave Varanasi after 6pm. We groaned when we heard an announcement stating that the train would be delayed by two hours. Two hours became four hours. We were supposed to arrive back in Kolkata around 8am. We didn’t get in until around 3pm. It reminded me of the film The Darjeeling Limited where the protagonists are stranded in the desert because the train got “lost.” I'm still recovering...

Thanks to Kate for the picture of Eoin Mac, Ben and myself.

Do It Yourself?!

One week, Gora asked me if I'd help putting up some signs around the various projects. I said I’d be delighted to. He told me it would involve drilling, which I had never done before. The first day went great. This year, the month of November began on a Sunday, which meant I experienced a Friday the 13^th. Two weeks late. It all began when I broke the extension cord by pulling the wire out of its holdings. Although I managed to put it back together, it went up in a puff of smoke when I switched the power on. I went out and bought another extension chord and I thought that was the end of my troubles. But no, the drill had to break as well, just after I had put four insubstantial holes in the wall. The fan that keeps the electromagnet cool disintegrated. Even thought it continued to spin, I knew it might overheat and kill me. So I spent the rest of the day putting up signs using double-sided sticky tape. That evening, we went to get the drill repaired. I assumed we would just drop it off and come back on Monday to collect it but not before being charged a hefty repair fee. Like the way they do things at home. But this is India. The repair shop was a stall with one man surrounded by broken drills. He methodically took the drill apart, replaced the fan and put it back together. All for fifty rupees. He did this using his bare hands, a hammer and a chisel. No computer, no instruction booklets, no measuring equipment. I knew they wouldn’t give it back to me until it worked properly. When the housing for the electromagnet wobbled, he cut up two pieces of cardboard to wedge between the metal and the plastic casing. Problem solved. I wasn’t the least bit surprised when the drill worked perfectly and didn’t explode in my hands. Now if the repairmen of this city can work the same magic on my cursed phone, I’ll be delighted.

On Thursday night, we went to a world music concert held in a place called Princep Ghat under Vidyasagar Setu, the suspension bridge that crosses the Hoogly River. We arrived just in time for the beginning of the actual concert. It featured Purbayan Chatterjee on sitar. Bickram Ghosh played the Tabla, a Indian percussion instrument. Taufiq Qureshi played world percussions and Atul Raninga played keyboards. The bassist was called Bumpy. That’s it. No surname and no mention or whether it was a real name or his nickname. The music was fantastic. Until the drum solo between the two men on percussion. It lasted at least half an hour. But I couldn’t ignore their enthusiasm. I was glad when the other musicians returned for some proper music. It finished and we made our way outside to get a taxi to take us somewhere to eat. There were eight of us and the first five managed to get a taxi without difficulty. However, we had no such luck. We flagged down three taxis that promptly drove off when we told them where we wanted to go. It wasn’t even 10pm! We got one who took us round in circles before kicking us out near a goat market. Thank goodness we had someone who knew the city and could speak Bengali or we would’ve been listening to bleating goats all night. Life in this city is absurd. All I can do is laugh.

Made in Inda!

While I was painting the upper walls of the hospice, my eyes were drawn to the small starter box behind the fluorescent light slowly blinding me. Although it was written upside-down, I couldn’t miss what it said. “Made in Inda.” Where’s that? The invisible sister country of India? Then I saw “Kolkata” written before it and I realised it was a typo. I just like to laugh at the absurdity of some of the things I’ve seen. Last week, I saw a sign that said, “leg for legless.” Lots of room for opportunities there. India is a strange and wonderful place. It didn’t get much stranger than the jazz festival I attended over the weekend. I had this image of going to a dark, smoky venue with sharply dressed musicians playing trombones, pianos and a double bass. The reality was very different. Getting there was an event in itself. It sounded like a city center event. The taxi driver had no idea where to go. Why would he when the street names are so long? Once the taxi dropped us off, we had a vague idea of where to go. We were directed down some dubious side street that brought us into the proper heart of Kolkata. Vendors sold slabs of freshly butchered meat to anyone brave enough to buy. Newly plucked chicken feathers were being stuffed into pillows. And the further we wandered, the more lost we felt. We made our way down a street torn up for repairs. Suddenly, we arrived at the Dalhousie Institute, the location of Congo Square and our elusive jazz festival. We paid 120 Rs. for a ticket and were promptly given a small green bag containing soaps and shower gels. Handy. I walked into the main open-air square and the first thing I noticed was a guy on stage playing the xylophone and wearing a full-bodied skunk suit. To top it off, he had a bright pink scarf draped around his neck. Things only got stranger when I went to the bar to get a drink. First, I had to buy coupons. Then I had to go to another table and order what I wanted. Finally, I went to another table to hand over my stamped order. All to get a cheap bottle of beer. We sat down to enjoy some jazz. Well, that’s what they called it. To me, it sounded more like ethereal Indian music. One Indian sang and played guitar. The bass player had dreadlocks down to his hips. I was hypnotized by it. I discovered that the skunk was a New Yorker named Jon Singer who got a Fulbright to study South Indian percussion in 2009/2010. He hopes to raise money to bring his band, Xylopholks from New York to do a tour. He plans to come back to Kolkata at the end of January for another show. I’d go see him again. When he finished, another band took to the stage. They were the more standard combination of singer, guitarist, bassist and drummer. They were good and they seemed to be enjoying themselves until the police came and cut off their sound in the middle of one of their songs. I thought it was a very cruel way to end their gig. I’d have gone back the following night but I had no idea how to get there.