Holiday

The blog will be on a short break now; I will be travelling to the beaches of Kerala and Goa to spend the christmas days there and get a first touch on southern India, a very different cultural realm within the subcontinent.

Meanwhile, my readers, you can twist to some old school Bollywood tunes. Here's a cult classic from the horror-thriller movie Gumnaam from 1965. The song "Jaan Pechehaan Ho" ("We should get to know each other") was composed and performed by the grand old man of Bollywood music, Mohammed Rafi. Now shake what Brahma gave ya!

On a Cold Winter Night in Delhi

From November onwards, the temperatures in the city started to plummet rapidly. While I still a while ago had lamented the endless pouring sweat and the inescapability of the heat, soon enough I woke up realizing that my toes that had stuck outside the duvet during the night had gone almost numb and the windows had gathered a light crust of frost on them. The bone chilling breezes from the Himalayas had swept the remnants of the monsoon heat turning Delhi into a cold, dry pit of dust.

The change in climate had also become visible in the people in the streets. Walking to the campus these days, one can see the rickshaw-wallahs huddled together blowing to their hands, wrapped in blankets or whatever pieces of cloth they had managed to find, bare frozen toes in their sandals. Beggars equally have turned into small heaps of clothes and blankets with a hand sticking out. Seeing how hard the temperature drop seemed to hit these people, it made me think how the inclement weather generally treats the people on the fringes of the society. It seemed that for those without a roof on top of their heads, an already unfriendly city had turned downright hostile.

According to different estimates, Delhi has some 100,000-150,000 people with no access to shelter, water and sanitation. For these people, winter is a time of merciless survival; during the winter months, approximately 10 homeless people die per night due to lack of shelter, warm clothes or blankets. Having realized that to many of these people with little or no income at all, winter brings unreasonable daily choices between staying warm or buying food. Some companies in Delhi had started to hire blankets to homeless with a price of 10 rupees per night, but to many this leads to a choice between a meal or a blanket per day.

Therefore me and my friends Vicki and Lynsey decided to try to help at least a fraction of these people by eliminating this daily Sophie's choice of getting nutrition over staying warm by throwing a fundraiser to buy blankets. A quick Facebook fundraiser proved to be surprisingly efficient and with the help of our friends worldwide, we managed to gather enough money for 300 blankets. On short notice this was a good enough achievement from three people and their friends.

We donated the funds to PMI (Passion Movement International), an NGO based in North Delhi running different health and education projects in the slums of Delhi. They organize annually a "blanket run" where they distribute blankets to homeless winter to survive the chilling nights, so we decided to sponsor them with our donation as well as help them physically distribute the blankets.

On one Sunday then, when the blanket run was to take place, we gathered in the NGO headquarters for briefing. It had turned out that the ngo in question happened to be run by mostly American Evangelical Christians, which had made me somewhat worried, but I did not let it bother too much as it seemed that the actual work of the NGO did not include prozelytizing. Otherwise we would have taken our business elsewhere. I was also somewhat reserved due to some of the employees' "we're more like a big family" approach, but tried to ignore it and focus on getting the actual task done.

After a reluctant communal prayer, that some of the employees of the NGO insisted on having before hitting the streets, we got into three cars with our 300 blankets and drove into the cold night of Delhi. Many of the homeless in Delhi sleep on sidewalks and strips of concrete dividing highways, so finding them was relatively easy. At first we did not seem to find too many people in need of blankets and some of the few that we met in this stage even refused and insisted that they didn't need them. However, as we approached the Delhi Stock Market area, the extent of the problem became abundantly clear to us. Starting from the stock market main building, blocks after blocks of  rows of men, women and children lay huddled in the pavements; shivering bony bodies curled up against each other, wrapped in anything from strips of bed linen to plastic bags to nothing at all. The irony of the situation would have been hilarious, if it wouldn't have been so tragic. Hordes of the poorest people in the country inhabit the area surrounding the building where most of India's financial capital flows and grows.

As we were giving out the blankets, some of the NGO people started taking photographs of each other giving the blankets to the poor, for PR purposes they explained. Utterly disgusted by this demeaning of a person's plight to get a novelty memento, me, Vicki and Lynsey got into a slight confrontation with some of the employees, but as it seemed that these people saw nothing wrong with what they were doing, we found it useless to try to talk sense to them and instead focus on the actual task at hand.

Many accepted the blankets with outstreched hands, but for some it seemed to be more important to take care of their own first. An old man was offered a blanket, he refused and instead told us to come behind the corner, because there we would find people that really needed them. Sure enough, we were met with young mothers and small children sleeping with little to nothing to keep them warm - block after block.

Needless to say, our distribution was not an attempt to solve a problem, rather to gain first hand insight in the extent of the problem, and try to save a few lives in the process. I hadn't done any charity work before this but after realizing that a blanket can save a person's life and how little effort it took to gather already a notable sum of money that would buy hundreds of blankets, I felled compelled to do so. Giving blankets to these people doesn't save them from their predicament, but it did at least provide a temporary relief. It also taught us a very palpable lesson in economic inequality.

Unlike many metropolises in Western countries, Delhi makes its well-to-do residents deal with the marginalized ones on a daily basis. You may be a pinstriped businessman tucked safely inside your Honda City or a successful young IT-professional clutching your new Macbook with all the titivating gadgets, but you will still have to trudge on through hosts of beggars and homeless people sleeping on the street even in fairly central commercial areas. Despite its blatant visibility, the plight of the poor seems to be effectively neglected and ignored by the wealthier echelons of the Indian society.

Since India's economic liberalization from the early 90's onwards, the collective mindset seems to have developed into a sort of frenzied accumulation of wealth by any means necessary. The same social and economic inequality that prevailed in a centrally planned economy before the ascension of Manmohan Singh to the prime minister's seat still exists in the new, frenetically capitalist, India as well, where all pursue but very few gain the wealth they aspire to. Cities like Delhi have become the hubs of this new prosperity, which has resulted in mass migrations of people from rural areas to the cities in search of employment. Many of these people, often uneducated and illiterate, end up living on the streets. There are many stories how these people ended up where they are, but a lot fewer on how they got out of there.

Although economic liberalization has in theory democratized the opportunity for economic advancement by making the possibility to be a self made man available to all, the reality is that most of the homeless are stuck in a rut of hand-to-mouth existence that is virtually impossible to get out of. Meanwhile, those that have already made it, are busy maintaining their acquired lifestyles. An article by Rana Dasgupta in Granta magazine quotes Tarun Tejpal, a prominent Delhi-figure, award winning author and editor of the anti-establishment Tehelka magazine. His description of the current mindset running the economy paints a bleak picture of a dog-eat-dog society:

‘No one cares,’ he says. ‘There are no ideas except the idea of more wealth. The elite don’t read. They know how to work the till, and that’s it. There’s nothing: we are living in the shallowest decade you can imagine. Rural India, that’s 800 million people, has simply fallen out of the master narrative of this country. There should have been an enormous political left in India, but people worship the rich and there’s no criticism of what they do. They face no consequences; they live in an atmosphere of endless possibility.’

‘Do you think anything will come of all this money they’re making?’ I ask. ‘Do you think they’ll try to leave behind a legacy?’

‘They don’t care about their legacy! This is a Hindu society: I’m back for a million more lives – how much fuss am I going to make about this one? Indian businesspeople might run a school or feed a few orphans, but they’re not interested in reform because they are bent on making the system work for them. Hinduism is very pliable. It rationalizes inequality: if that guy is poor it’s because he deserves it from his previous lives, and it’s not for me to sort out his accounts. Hinduism allows these guys to think that what they get is due to them, and they have absolutely no guilt about it.’

Voices of pessimist dissent like these have emerged in the turmoil of India's economic race with China and appeasing politics with the West. While the authorities have been preoccupied in turning Delhi as quickly as possible into a "world class city" with draconian urban planning projects and the government has been busy toting the emergence of India as a rising global economic power to the rest of the world as well as to Indians themselves, parts of reality remain often unspoken. The new India has been favourable to a select few in the urban areas. However, over 70 percent of the population live in rural India, many in deplorable conditions. Many are forced to migrate to cities like Delhi only to become another addition to the army of homeless inhabiting the darker corners of the city. These people have remained an uncomfortable reality that the country needs to explain to the rest of the world and, above all, to itself.

Pushkar Camel Fair

As I have earlier mentioned, moving around in Delhi can sometimes be very cumbersome and even dangerous. One starts to long for a proper personal mode of transport when you're stuck crossing the street for ages, under a constant threat of getting run over by reckless busdrivers in their monstrous vehicles, rampant motorcyclists, auto-rickshaw-wallahs thinking they're the maharajas of the road, advertisement elephants, and your average Indian pedestrians, whose walking pace renders a westerner with a lazy mosey a mere obstacle slowing them down. There are many options to choose from and when we heard that on the upcoming weekend the city of Pushkar was finishing its annual camel fair, we thought it would be worthwhile to go and inspect the remaining merchandise, in case we would find ourselves an awe-inspiring humpback to match the road raging Delhiites with their mopeds and Marutis. 

As all trains to Pushkar were already fully booked due to the festival, we had to settle for a night bus. Arriving to the bus stop we were casually informed that the bus will be leaving at least an hour late for whatever reason. In India, reasons for delays seem to be irrelevant, they don't change the state of affairs and therefore there's no reason to be bothered about excuses. Since we had all this extra time on our hands, we decided to use it wisely to search for food. Unfortunately, we happened to be in a neighbourhood mostly inhabited by electricians and car part shops, so snacks were scarce. 

On the other side of the road was a hospital and seeing it was the only option we had, we decided to inspect the place in case they had a cafeteria. The guard on the door looked a bit confused when we enquired for a place to eat inside the hospital, but let us in with a shrug. Outside the hospital, there were huddled masses of patients waiting for treatment, wrapped in blankets. Inside, we saw practically no patients. The maze-like insides of the hospital smelt of disinfectants and drying paint and the occasional whimper echoed from the various surgery wards in the corridors lit by blinking lights as we passed trying to find the staff cafeteria. Finally we found a door, tucked between neurosurgery and gynaecology. Sitting in the dining hall were four surgeons in their white jackets, blue caps and masks hunched over their bowls of dal. As we entered the room, they lowered their spoons and kept staring at us askingly, meanwhile the cashier bumped in letting us know politely that the cafeteria was only for staff and that our presence was not exactly appreciated. Apparently, food had to wait.

We eventually found a small kiosk that sold patties that served our needs. We returned to the bus to wait for departure that still kept delaying. Meanwhile the standing bus filled with travellers provided lucrative opportunities for all manner of salesmen to make a few quick rupees. Sitting in my thoughts waiting for the bus to leave, I was poked by a man: 

Man: You want cold drink?

Me: No thanks, I'm fine...

Man: You want chips?

Me: nah, thanks..

Man: You want 32 gigabyte memory stick? 

Me: Huh? 

Man: You want iPod? Listen here! No? Head massage machine? 

Me.....

As tempting as all these options seemed, I had to decline. 

Eventually the bus started and we finally set course to the city of Pushkar in the state of Rajasthan. 

Some twelve hours later we woke up in the middle of desertous rough terrain, where we were greeted by camel convoys and torrents of women in their colourful sarees and men in extravagant turbans and moustaches heading towards a bustling city standing in the middle of the desert. The holy city of Pushkar, a place of ca. 15,000 inhabitants, hosts annually one of the largest camel fairs in Asia to bring together camel - and other merchants, potential camel customers, pilgrims and tourists together for a five-day celebration of cattle trade, exhibitions and competitions such as the "longest moustache" and "bridal" competition (both of which we had unfortunately missed already). Wikipedia describes the festivities accordingly:

The whole town comes alive with vibrant folk music and dances, magic shows, horse and camel races and various other traditional entertainment competitions.Pushkar, with more than 12 local fairs and festivals of 10 –15 days duration is a year round destination. It is a mellow town by the great lake of Pushkar amidst the perfume of jasmine and rose flowers. More than 4,000 to 6,000 visitors from all over the world come to Pushkar everyday.

The sacred lake of Pushkar is a popular pilgrimage site amongst Hindus. It is believed that the lake emerged when Lord Brahma, creator of the universe, dropped a lotus petal on the site. Nowadays pilgrims come miles away to the surrounding ghats to bathe in the lake, which is believed to cure diseases. The camel fair is also peak season for pilgrimage and something of the importance of the city as a hindu pilgrimage site might tell that the Imperial Gazetter of India mentioned already in 1909 that the city was visited by over 100,000 pilgrims during the fair. The population of India was then around 250 million, today it's around 1,15 billion. One can imagine the increase in pilgrim count.

Colourful saree-clad women observing the party from a roof. The festivities attracted people from all over Rajasthan all dressed up for the occasion. For the most of our short stay in the city, the streets were completely packed and moving from one place to another asked patience and carefulness. Despite the fact that Pushkar is a holy city of the Hindus, which means that alcohol is not sold or served there, during the evenings the merry-making started to get somewhat rowdy, and crazed stampedes of young men among the crowds were not uncommon. At times the crowds had to be dispersed by the police with sharp lashes with their lathis, or bamboo-canes.

A local sweets-maker with his extensive collection of delicatessen for the sweet-toothed. Indian sweets are the bane of the diabetic as all sweets seem to be invariably dipped in liquid sugar, fried in sugar and sprinkled with sugar. A personal favourite are the sweet "squigglies" on the bottom left, known as jalebis, which is basically just batter deep fried and dipped in syrup, but nevertheless absolutely scrumptuous.

Around the festival area, on the way to the field where the camels were supposed to be, groups of snake charmers were waiting to grab the attention of any passing tourist. As intrigued as I was by these men that epitomize the mythical childhood image of India as a land of snake charmers and coal hopping fakirs, reality had to once again shatter my image; not only were these men tourist-hungry touts, the snakes in their baskets seemed to be more bored and bothered than charmed by the men's flute-playing. Lying paralyzed on the bottom of the baskets they looked like they wanted to say "Please, make it stop!".

As we finally arrived in the large field, where the camels were being sold, we were met with a half empty field with mostly scruffy looking camels lying in the sun waiting for their proprietors to take them away. The finest specimens had already changed owners and during these last days all that was left were ones with a limp, a missing eye or other ailments, which of course substantially decreases the value of the camel. A quick enquiry revealed that apparently the standard price of a camel on the camel market revolves around 40,000 rupees (670 euros), which I guess would've been a fair price for a relative large sized animal. However, as we would not settle for any scrawny cross-eyed spitting fleabag, it soon became clear there were no suitable vehicles left for us to conquer the streets of Delhi.

This man was trying to get rid of his last one with 40,000 rupees, which eventually proved to be too much. The thing had a suspicious look in its eyes, as if it was up to no good - there must have been a reason more experienced camel shoppers had left this creature untouched. As we were hesitating, the man was trying to hypnotize us with his moustache to buy the creature, but we were not fooled.

The word "camel" derives from Greek word kamelos, which in turn apparently comes from the Arabic word ǧml, which is derived from the semitic consonantal root signifying "beauty".

After circling the field for a while, inspecting the remaining merchandise, it seemed that we finally had to give up and forget about our quest for a camel. Eventually however, as we were leaving the area, we bumped into a true ship of the desert!

Finally, it was time to head home, over the mountains, through the desert! The camel knew the way...or would have, if we wouldn't have had to leave it to the kid as we left the market area...

Shimla

After staying for a few days in Manali, it was time to head back down south, with a few days' pit stop in the city of Shimla, capital of the state of Himachal Pradesh, and the former summer capital of British India. 

On our last morning in Manali, we packed our bags, said goodbye to the puppies (see previous post), loaded our jeep and set course towards south. As distances in the mountaneous state of Himachal are long and  roads meander through the hilly terrain, even a seemingly short ride may (and usually does) take hours. During our 8 hour jeep ride we were luckily entertained by our Sri Lankan travel companions, who gave us a crash course on the essence of Buddhism as well as a thorough briefing on the recent political developments in Sri Lanka, including the fate of the Tamil Tigers - another example how every day in India has been, and is, an enormous learning experience. 

Eventually dusk started to descend, and the hills on the way to Shimla were lit by the houses like small lanterns. Just as the group's backs were starting to get achy and patience was running short, we reached the city, and after a while of driving around town, looking for affordable accommodation on very short notice, with little success, we deboarded our jeep and decided to continue on foot. At this point our group was joined by an elderly man wielding a cane, a blanket wrapped around him, and a traditional Himachali cap, making him look like a sheep herder looking for his lost flock in the city. The man promised to help us on our quest for an affordable hotel (as these people are often paid commission for it) and eventually, after hours of looking for an affordable and available rooms, we ended up in mid-range establishment with an interesting range of services, such as unlimited freezing water, blankets for the beds for an extra 100rs and a ten o'clock lockdown (leaving the place was possible after waking up the receptionist and kindly asking him to let you out). 

Next on the agenda was food, as it was already past 11pm, the whole city had gone to sleep and none of the restaurants, or shops were open. After wandering a while amidst the empty streets inhabited only by the occasional stray dog digging the garbage bins or a monkey observing us from the rooftops, a man called after us from one of the apartment windows. Since this seemed to be our only option for now, our search party climbed up the narrow stairs into the man's quarters. It seemed that the man had made his house also his business; the room he lived in was divided in two. On one half ,there was a fully furnished apartment with a bed, TV, sink, toilet, chairs and a bookshelf; On the other, there was a fully furnished cornershop selling everything from soft drinks and snacks to batteries and lightbulbs. This man certainly didn't waste time commuting every day. Our hungry pack made his day as we literally emptied his shop of bread pakoras and veggie patties. 

The next day, things started to pick up again as we were able to concentrate on exploring the city and enjoying the atmosphere.

The main part of Shimla spreads out to the green hills and altitude changes between blocks can be surprisingly vast. On a clear day one can see the Himalayan snow caps surrounding the area. 

The modest view from our room.

As mentioned, Shimla served as the summer capital of the British Raj from 1864 onwards. The sweltering summer heat of Calcutta had started to apparently test the patience of the colonial administrators and the quinine from all the gin tonics in the world did not seem to be enough to assuage the constant plague of malaria during the wet months. Running an empire just seemed to be too much to ask on a hot day. The Brits, accustomed to a cooler climate as they were, then ended up with a somewhat ambitious, yet practical plan - the capital needed to move further north for the summer. At same time when the clerks where lamenting the heat, reports from topographers of an ideal location for a hill station with a pleasant and temperate climate in the region of Himachal had reached Calcutta. As Lord William Bentinck, the Governor-General of Bengal at that time, in a letter characterized it, "proves a very agreaable refuge from the burning plains of Hindoostaun". Without further ado the clerks, crazed by the heat, anxiously began packing their bags (or their servants did, at least). Slowly, a British cultural wave swept over a sleepy village on the hills. The result can be seen below.

Two icons of past British culture dominating the city centre: Tudor Style Architecture (left) and Christianity (the Neo Gothic Christ Church of Shimla is the second largest church in northern India)

The main shopping street, or the Mall, as it is called. The architecture makes downtown Shimla seem like some small town in Britain that was teleported into the Himalayas. Tweed clad pukka sahibs with their immaculately pressed trousers and walking sticks strolling down the market only reinforce this vision.

A true Indian gentleman enjoys his afternoon coffee in the Indian Coffee House, a locale that still retains some of the colonial atmosphere. Interestingly enough, the place is almost solely frequented by older gentlemen, who apparently gather there to gossip.

India's dual, janus-like, relationship with colonialism and British culture is illustratively reflected in the urban spaces of Shimla. The fact that instead of eradicating much of the colonial past by replacing the Tudor-style architecture as well as the church with more contemporary architecture, these spaces have become venerated and carefully preserved heritage sights. They serve as a reminder to younger Indian generations, where much of the culture of India today derives from. The interplay of recent history and traditions surpassing it form a melange through which India created and still constantly re-creates its identity.

Cities with idiosyncratic pasts like Shimla retain their history in not only their architecture, but also in the collective memories of their inhabitants. The impeccably tweed-dressed Indian gentleman with a distinctly aristocratic habitus, a somewhat rarer sight in the constantly changing urban Delhi, represents the two-sided relationship of colonial history to Indian culture as much as a preserved colonial building. The elders of a city are the keepers of its spirit and its living memory who through their personal histories provide a window to the past from an alternative perspective. Meeting a person like this is thus as educational as visiting a museum or reading a book.

On our last day in Shimla, we had the opportunity to meet one of these people. Having had a big dinner on our last night in the city we were trying to digest our feast with a little stroll around Scandal Point, one of the central meeting points of downtown Shimla. It was already getting late, we had been the last customers in the restaurant and the streets were mostly empty, once again inhabited mainly by the occasional street dog sniffing  around for food or a monkey observing from the rooftop. We were slowly progressing towards our hostel, when our chatting was interrupted by a somewhat withered, yet firm voice: "Halt! I recognize your language! Where do you hail from?" Behind us stood an elderly gentleman, dressed in a thick woollen sports jacket complemented with a light blue silk scarf, a matching cardigan and a silver headed walking stick - a man with a rather generously proportioned body structure with the kind of belly that can only come as a result of years of economic prosperity. It was clear that he was a man of wealth.

Having introduced ourselves and explained what we were doing in Shimla and in India, the man found our interest in the city apparently very delightful and insisted on inviting us for a late night drink to his apartment. Looking at each other askingly, we agreed. The man introduced himself as Mr.Chandra - a carpet merchant par excellence with decades of experience in hand woven carpets, shawls and other fine textiles. He entertained us with a brief personal biography, how he emerged from a modest background with little education to the founder of apparently one of the most distinguished carpet dealers in Delhi.

Climbing up the stairs to his apartment, we were greeted by what appeared to be his servant - a thin and quiet man with an alert presence. He opened the door and invited us in. Entering this carpet mogul's apartment was like entering a mid sized home museum. The walls were covered with black and with photographs of him and his family and friends from different decades from various prestigious-looking events and people. The floor was covered with oriental carpets from every imaginable corner of the east - later it turned out that he owns the second largest collection of oriental carpets in all of Asia, which I did not find hard to believe. 

We told to sit down as the servant served us wine and whiskey. Throughout our brief stay in the house, if the servant was not performing a task, he was standing on the doorway quietly waiting for the next orders. As we were sipping our drinks, our host gave us a brief personal account on how he had seen Shimla's palpable change from a pristine mountain town to a busy commercialized hub of the northern Indian states. He was not too keen on the increasing population of the new rich Indian population in the area. Apparently, Shimla as he knew it, was dying fast. The history of the town as he had experienced was vanishing along with people of his generation. Nevertheless, he insisted on still spending most of his spare time there. The dacha we were sitting in was apparently his second apartment mostly intended for recreation, the first one being in Delhi, and the third one being in London (for business purposes, of course). After finishing our drinks, as it was getting late, we saw fit to thank the man for his hospitality and leave. He courteously thanked us for our company and bade us good night in an appropriately gentlemanly manner.

The meeting with one of the remaining old hand Shimlaites was a perfect closing to the historical excursion our visit in the city had been. 

Manali

Due to some technical difficulties, failing health and visiting parents, the blog has been on an involuntary hiatus. For that, dear readers, I present my humble apology. I'll try to make up for it by being more productive from now on. Anyway, as mentioned in the previous post, the approaching Commonwealth Games were causing rush and pandemonium in the city, and since the university decided to close its doors for a good two weeks, our finnish-scottish-british-iranian-sri lankan-bangladeshi entourage decided to head for a cooler climate and a more chilled atmosphere - this time to the cities of Manali and Shimla on the Himalayas.

We left Delhi around nine in the evening and due to some absent-minded idiocy from your truly, me and my Iranian friend Hamid accidentally bought tickets to the wrong bus which was heading to Shimla, whereas everybody else was heading to Manali first. After a few hours ride, we managed to jump off in the city of Chandigarh and convince the bus drivers that I am an idiot, the drivers kindly let us change our tickets and board the right bus. After the unfortunate incident, the rest of the journey went on without greater hassle.

After several hours of trying to sleep while constantly bouncing up and down and banging my head to the roof of the bus, the sun started to rise and we eventually reached the city of Manali. The surroundings of Delhi are mainly rather flat and dry, mostly fields, but soon after that, as you head north, the landscape starts to take a very different shape. After deboarding the bus we were greeted by a view of majestic mountain ranges covered by tall, ever-verdant deodars and tucked away in this sublime landscape, laid a town strangely reminiscent of a Swiss alpine village and a clear mountain air filled my nostrils. The dust of Delhi started to gradually blow away from my shoulders.

Manali, a town of some 30,000 in the northern state of Himachal Pradesh, is well known as a popular holiday retreat of the nouveau riche of India since the 80's and it's well known for its wide variety of adventure sports, including Yak-skiing, something of a local speciality. The place attracts backpackers from all over the world due to its chilled atmosphere, picturesque landscapes, pleasant climate and, for the drug connoisseurs, Manali Cream, which originates from the Kullu valley nearby.

Apart from the clear mountain air and landscape, equally uplifting was this batch of puppies that greeted us in our hostel.

Even in a fairly touristy place like Manali, fair skin seems to attract attention. This class of schoolchildren ambushed me and Lynsey and having heard that she was from Scotland, the teacher's eyes began to glow. "Please, speak proper English to my pupils! Listen carefully, this is a real British person!" The teacher also seemed to find it important to repeatedly mention that these children all live below the poverty line.

Got electric appliances that need fixing? Thakur's your man!

Another excellent example of Indian entrepreneurship.

As a town, Manali is divided in two parts - New Manali and Old Manali. A two minute rickshaw drive from the busy Mall, where international and Indian franchises have made their way already, takes you to Old Manali, where the essence of hippyish backpackerdom lies. The snakey and narrow road starts climbing upward to a hill where ramshackle country houses, small coffee shops with Israeli backpackers smoking their chillums, hippie clothes vendors, schoolchildren and cows dominate the landscape.

On top of the hill of old Manali stands the Manu temple dedicated to the sage Manu - the creator of human race.

A Sadhu and his dog.

Indian holy men enjoying their Sunday afternoon in the temple yard.

 Since we had arrived in where the Himalayan mountain range begins, it seemed appropriate to trek up to an actual mountain and see some of Manali from a bird's eye view. Thus, the second day we hired a jeep and a driver to take us to a mountain nearby. The aim was to head for a proper snow cap.

The mountain expedition (from left): Prabhavie (Sri Lanka), Navid (Bangladesh), me, Vicki (England), Lynsey (Scotland), Hamid (Iran), Lasith (Sri Lanka), Dan (England) plus taking the photo is Pasanna (Sri Lanka). (Photo: Vicki Loader) 

The road up to the mountain rarely had enough space for two cars and the proximity to the steep drops made our expedition slightly uneasy at times. Nevertheless, our dauntless driver handled his vehicle impressively in a very challenging environment and after a few hours ride, we eventually made it to a base camp of sorts. After a short break it was time to venture forward. After a brief negotiation with the driver (and a suitable bribe), he agreed to take us further up the hill, from where we could try and reach the snow cap.

(Photo: Daniel Gregson)

Eshan (Sri Lanka) capturing the mountain range on the way.

Base camp (Photo:  Vicki Loader)

Climbing up towards the snow cap. Unfortunately the weather was not on our side as it started to snow and we were advised to come down for our own safety. (Photo: Vicki Loader)

Despite not being able to conquer the mountain, we at least managed to enjoy some Himalayan spring water straight from the source. (Photo: Vicki Loader)

On our way down, exhausted by our short trek, we were catered by a fine hillside café run by these gentlemen.
(Photo: Daniel Gregson)

Back in Manali, the town began preparing for the nine day festival Navratri, which is meant for celebrating the beginning of autumn and worshipping the goddess Durga (a goddess of victory of good over evil), who is widely worshipped in the Kullu valley.

Tucked within the haunting cedar forest, on the way to old Manali, lies the Hadimba temple dating back from 1553. The dark pagoda like structure is built around a huge rock. Inside, an altar is build under a slate of rock, so that worshippers have to crawl down to a small pit to show their respects. Unfortunately photography was not allowed.

The temple was also an important site for animal sacrifice. Hadimba was the patron of the Rajas of Kullu valley; during the swearing-in ceremony of the Rajas, they would seek Hadimba's blessings and sacrifice buffaloes in return.

After staying in Manali for a good three days, our company decided to pack our bags, get another jeep and head down south through the green, almost tropical, Kullu valley towards the city of Shimla. (next post)

Snapshots pt.2

For the next week or two, I shall be heading north to the Himalayas to shake off the dust of Delhi in fresh air and cool breeze. Meanwhile, it is time for another set of scenes from the everyday of a delhiwallah,
as life in the ever so vibrant city goes on and my photo-album expands.

This man had decided to park his vehicle of choice right in front of our hostel.

Life in the International Students House is rarely boring. The hostel hosts a cavalcade of characters that keep things interesting even on the rainiest of days. The man in blue is Babatou (not his real name), a Vietnamese half monk half journalist and a true living legend, whose somewhat brusque demeanor sometimes resembles that of a vietcong guerrilla interrogator. The man speaks about 200 words per minute with a vietnamese accent, which makes him most of the time a bit hard to follow. Having heard that Vicki and Dan were British, he practically ordered them to teach English to him and his friends in exchange for kung-fu lessons.

The monks insisted to know about life in England so obviously the lesson turned into the topic of religion. Of course, vocabulary-wise it's good to start with something simple and useful, such as "big", "faith" and "secularization".

The view from my room offers many kinds of entertainment. Channel 79 usually shows football every night and junior league cricket every morning...

...unless the monsoon has hijacked the network and has decided to run "Swamp Show" instead. 

India being heavy on the service sector, all kinds of services are also available around the hostel. This hair salon is conveniently located right next to the entrance gate. If you're in a rush in the morning, and the stubble's still on, he's your man.

India is apparently also all about dogs, they're ubiquitous. This one is always sleeping in my hallway and  if you even accidentally happen to show any attention towards her, she'll follow you anywhere.

Also hippie nazis are the latest fad in India. 

Majnu Ka Tilla - the Tibetan colony of Delhi, is a strange haven of tranquility amongst the constant noise of the surrounding city. Here, you will not get pestered by touts and hustlers. Instead, you are greeted by the Buddhist elders spending an afternoon at the main square sipping tea.

A Buddhist monk watching the Dalai Lama show.

Cigarette vendor, or paan-wallah, as they are called here. Paan is a kind of Indian chewing tobacco wrapped in a betel leaf.  One peculiar feature of it is, that it colours your teeth red, which explains why all auto-rickshaw drivers look like they have a severe gum infection. 

Offence nr. 63: Travelling on roof of train. A serious problem in the Indian metro.

A girl studying on the street. Children like this can be seen all around the busier areas. The meaning of the scale is still unclear.

Monsoon turns the boring walk home into instant Adventureland!

The drivers trapped in their cars, the kids outside frolicking: grown ups 0 - kids 1.

Learning the Hindi language under the tutelage of a great man, Dr. Vimlesh Kanti Verma. 

Street cleaners were getting busy right before the beginning of the Commonwealth Games.

"Kumar, i'm telling you, those monkeys are getting cheekier and cheekier every day. That ones scratching his..." "Please Sandeep, i'm eating here!"

As the Kashmiris had been very active on the campus, the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP), India's hindu nationalist party, decided to counter attack with an agressive campaign heralding the recognition of Kashmir as a part of India, not as an independent state.

The demagogues got the crowd into a craze of slogan chanting.

The irony speaks for itself.

Cigarette vendor behind the law faculty canteen. Here's where all the students get their smokes.

Religion is an inseparable part of India and its influence is all pervasive. Even the university copy shop has its own shrine dedicated to lord Shiva - the creator and the destroyer (of photocopies).

The sun sets in the west (where Mecca is) behind Jama Masjid - the main mosque of Delhi.

The future of muslim boy bands - the Qur'an Brothers!

This gentleman insisted to be photographed in this setting. Unfortunately my Hindi/Urdu is not yet fluent enough to understand his explanation.

The Muslim elders lounge around on a Saturday afternoon - exchanging the latest gossip.

Self portrait.

Choose your ride.