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.

Challenges

Before I came here, I was told that living and working in Kolkata would be a challenge. Well, it has but not in the way I expected. Things that shouldn’t pose any difficulty to me are causing me a lot of frustration lately. Things like my phone for example. Seeing as I started a rant about my phone last week, I might as well continue. I hate phones. I hate phones that don’t work even more. What could be worse than a phone that doesn’t work? How about a phone that half works? My phone can make and receive phone calls. It gets text messages but can’t read them because the screen has stopped working. People are actually starting to feel sorry for me. Perhaps this is a good thing. It’ll teach me not to carry my phone around when washing paintbrushes after a hard day’s work. Yes, I have come to India to paint. As another volunteer said, “I do what I’m told.” One of the projects needed a good cleaning and a lick of paint. The chicken coop also needed to be moved out of the playground. It sounded simple in theory. Naturally, it wasn’t. Before knocking the chicken coop, we had to build a new one or else the poultry would be eaten by the “white cats.” We knocked the old hen house with a combination of hammers and logs. Then it started to rain and the ducks came racing from their pond into what they thought was the shelter of their house. But they got drenched and so did we, as we had to finish the new coop before nightfall. A little thing like rain wasn’t going to stop us despite the stares from the locals. Once we completed the hen’s new home, we began painting the living quarters. We used a type of paint called “distemper,” which had to be diluted. On the first attempt, it achieved the consistency of water. One of the rooms was tricky because it had a high ceiling and the rollers couldn’t reach the edges. So I found myself inching up a wobbly ladder, which was balanced precariously on an uneven floor. I guess all those summers spent trimming hedges on a stepladder were well spent. I got it done without incurring any grievous bodily harm. We were just about to head home when we saw flashes in the sky and heard the distant rumble of thunder. We decided to stay put under the gazebo rather than get stuck in traffic. We were there well over an hour and the heavy rain and lightning showed no signs of abating. So Gora came and picked us up. I was hoping he’d show up in one of the jeeps but instead, he arrived in a tiny Tata Indica. There were five of us crammed into the back of a car designed to seat three people comfortably. I had the door handle sticking into the back of my leg. Still, it was better than getting soaked to the skin. I went to bed before nine and passed out until around 7am. I needed it. Now if I could only clean the clothes I shouldn’t have worn painting…

Conundrums

I have an Indian friend who says that the British left behind all that was bad about bureaucracy and the Indians made it worse. My personal experience of this has been getting an Indian SIM card. It’s much more complicated than simply walking into a shop, handing over a few bits of change and walking out. I needed a passport. And I had to fill out a form that asked me for my full name and my father’s/husband’s name. No name for a wife? Well, I guess that ends my chances of ever getting married. So after about a week of listening to an Indian woman saying, “All the services of this mobile card have been temporarily suspended,” I finally managed to get a working phone. I don’t like phones. I like them even less when they don’t work. Which is what mine started doing last week. I went back to the shop I hoped I would never have to set foot in again. And they told me to come back with a passport, passport-sized photo and go through the whole tedious process again. Why would I have to go through this again? Today, I discovered that the photocopy of my visa “wasn’t clear enough.” I knew I should’ve left my phone at home and accept the fact that by living in this city, I am effectively going back in time. So I went through the rigmarole again. When I asked them when the phone would work again, they told me 48 hours. It seemed to me that the phone wouldn’t work “without orders signed in triplicate, sent in, sent back, lost, found, queried, subjected to public inquiry, lost again, and finally buried in soft peat for three months and recycled as firelighter.” Thanks to Douglas Adams for that insightful line.


Saturday was Foundation Day, The Hope Foundation’s 10th anniversary celebrations. Our day began when five of us crammed into the back of ambulance. Everyone else was dressed up in Punjabis and saris. I chose to stay Western because I didn’t want to wear something that looked like a dress. Gora, who works in the liaison office, was delighted when he saw that he wasn’t going to be the only one wearing jeans and a shirt. After a bumpy ride through the streets, we arrived at Science City where the festivities were taking place in a large auditorium. There were kids everywhere. And they were all hyper. I took a seat in the front row and promptly left because I was afraid the speakers would blow my eardrums out. There were a few speeches and then the lights went down for the main gig. It started with some children holding candles. We were promised something spectacular and they didn’t disappoint. The children had been up since 6am getting ready for their big day. They had been practicing endlessly for the last few weeks and it showed. Myself and Eoin found seats among a group of kids up towards the back. It was terrific entertainment. They went berserk whenever we took out our cameras. I had great fun doing Indian handshakes with them. Towards the end of the show, some popular Indian songs came on and the kids went wild. I could see them dancing in the aisles down the front so I went to join them. I can’t get enough of Indian music and dancing. I was thrilled when they played Jai Ho! But I wished they hadn’t cut it short. And then it was all over for another year. I’d come back just to do it again.

Purple

Last Thursday night, I had my first proper bus ride in this city. It was more of a bone-rattling alternative to walking than a means of public transport. The bus would barely get going from a traffic light when it would slow down to pick up more passengers. It reminded me of the ancient, noisy buses I used to get to school everyday, only most of the interior was made of wood. My housemate spotted another Puja parade and suggested we get off. I had no objections. The parade was made up of drummers, dancers, musicians and a large, brightly-lit effigy. We took a few photos and then it trundled down a side street and we continued on the main road. Then we heard more drums on the other side of the road. As we stood on the fence dividing the road to take photos, some of the dancers spotted us and dragged us straight into the mêlée. The were sweating as if they had been dancing for hours and their faces were caked with some kind of colourful powder. Without warning, I was doused in bright purple powder as I danced with the locals. The stuff went everywhere but I barely noticed. I was too caught up in dancing like a loon. The noise from the drums was ear-splitting. Suddenly, I found myself shouting “India is great!” with the dancers. If I tried that at home, I'd be locked up for disorderly conduct in a public place. It was only when I saw my two friends that I discovered how purple we had become. Our heads looked like a bunch of inflated grapes. After ten minutes of frenzied dancing, the powder had bonded nicely with the sweat and my skin. Well, I just had to laugh after I saw my photo. We got a combination of stares and smiles from the people we passed on the street. At last, I got what people back home warned me about. We looked like a trilogy of clowns let out of the circus for a night on the town. We gave our other housemates a good shock when we walked in the door. It took ten minutes of scrubbing in the shower to get most of the stuff off. I have been converted.


Eating food in Kolkata is hard work. Last week, I had dinner in what is probably the smallest restaurant I've ever been in. It has two tables and five chairs. It'll take four people at the most. The first time I went there, I thought it was just a take-away. And I wasn't very impressed with the watery boiled rice. So the next time, I got fried rice and it was much better. Every time I go into a restaurant to eat, they warn me that the dish I've just ordered is spicy. I think they're more used to Westerners that are terrified of spices. I can't get enough of them. And I've yet to have a dish that's spicier than anything I've eaten back home. But still, it's hard work because the restaurant is so small and the plate is like a miniature furnace. It may be the last day in October but it's still warm. I'm walking around in shorts and a t-shirt at nine o'clock at night. So, as usual, I start sweating. The people in the restaurant think there's something wrong with me. They think I can't handle the spices of the dish in front of me. What I have trouble with is the heat rising off the plate. I still enjoyed it immensely. I enjoyed the risk of sitting in a restaurant, watching the cook slice up a chicken that looked like it was killed earlier that day. It can't make me ill. The gas flames looked hot enough to melt teeth. I'm going back there because it's nice to be remembered with a smile and a greeting. Tourists talk about how “friendly” Irish people are. What a bunch of lies. They should come to India and discover what friendly people are really like. People like Raz, the guy who helped me out in the post office one day. I thought I'd never see him again until he greeted me one morning outside the liaison office. I was so surprised that I'd forgotten who he was. But I hadn't forgotten that he's going to college in Leicester, England next year. He hadn't forgotten where I said I was from. I didn't need to tell him to visit Ireland. Most of the people I've met have told me I come from a beautiful country. I feel humbled because India is just stunning. I can't wait to see more of the countryside...