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.