Mussoorie

As the teacher strikes in the university started become more frequent by the day, vacating my weeks from classes, and the sweltering heat of Indian August began to test my patience, me and my friends decided to flee further north for a cooler climate and to have a break from the hectic everyday of the metropolis.The north of India, with its lush green mountains, cool breezes and clear springwater trickling from the Himalayas had fascinated me for a while already. Thus without much contemplation, our Finnish-British-Scottish expedition decided to head to the small town of Mussoorie in the state of Uttarkhand on the foothills of the Himalayas.

Mussoorie, located some 300km north from Delhi and about 1800m above sealevel, is a town of about 26,000 people laid along the strips of the green mountains of Uttarkhand, where the Himalayan mountain range starts to dominate the horizon and the dusty and smoggy plains of Delhi make way for mist and clouds passing through slowly crumbling colonial era habitations. During the Raj, the town used to be a bustling hill station founded by the British for passing expeditions. Nowadays it serves as a conveniently located weekend retreat for heat-fleeing Delhiites and a romantically secluded haven for honeymooners.

Leaving from Delhi at around 9pm, we reached the town after a harrowing 9-hour bus ride and an equally bumpy taxi ride along the snakey roads up the green hills. After a calming cup of chai we took a first glimpse of the town. The main promenade of Mussoorie, the Mall, with its numerous establishments from Hindu temples to Adidas outlets and its motley people from Kashmiri carpet merchants to Hindu pilgrims carrying Ganges water, serves as an illustrative example of how populous and vast India actually is; even relatively remote corners like this feature vibrant microcosms where history exists seamlessly with the present. 

On the way to Mussoorie. At times, the mist prevented us
from seeing anything but the road.

India's iconic Ambassador cars against a scenic view from the Mussorie promenade.The small blue car  has the text "Knight Rider" written to its windshield - quite admirable confidence amongst the regal Ambassadors.

Near where the taxi left us was a humble, yet homely chai shop run by
 a burly man with equally impressive moustache to match, who mainly
communicated with loud grunts and wheezes.

The taxi stand in the Masonic Lodge building with some political graffiti - AISF stands for All India Students Foundation which is a student union associated with the Communist Party of India. Subtle traces of British history intertwine with modern India.

The bustling streets in this relatively secluded part of the world are unfortunately not solely a result of Indian entrepreneurship. The Mussorie Mall seemed to be mainly a product of the British Raj and thus bears memories from an era of blatant segregation and imperialism. Consider the following piece of Wikipedia trivia:

During the British Raj, signs on the Mall expressly stated: "Indians and Dogs Not Allowed"; racist signs of this type were commonplace in hill stations, which were founded 'by and for' the British.Motilal Nehru, the father of Jawaharlal Nehru, deliberately broke this rule every day whenever he was in Mussoorie, and would pay the fine. 

After settling in a cosy budget hotel and waiting for the seemingly endless rain to stop, we decided to pay a visit to one of the sights of the area, Cloud End, a colonial hunting lodge turned hotel with an allegedly breathtaking view. After another somewhat nauseating taxi ride, we eventually ended up to a quiet wooden bungalow tucked in the thick foresty hills filled with handsome Deodar trees. Due to the low season caused by the monsoon the place seemed virtually deserted with only a handful of labourers working in the garden, someone who seemed to be the manager sitting on the porch and a dog napping in the yard. During our ride up, the mist had again gathered around the hilltops giving the place somewhat of an eerie atmosphere. The interior with its moth-eaten stuffed deer heads and Raj-era photography set on display as if as a sign of subtle veneration only amplified the whispers from the past. If Bollywood would ever decide to film its own Twin Peaks, this would be the setting for it.

A view from the bungalow.

The bungalow hotel was surrounded by impressive
and somewhat haunting forests.

Photos from the early 20th century.
Carriers with early rickshaws and palanquins.

After having admired the views enough, and since we had told our driver that we'd be back in three hours, we decided to kill the remaining time with a trek along the road down the hills, which gave us our first glimpses of rural India. We passed the hotel towards the road and started descending the hills candidly following a couple of schoolboys on their way home. What we thought to be a light stroll with through scenic route ended up being a seemingly endless hike through the misty outskirts. Walking the road, we were met by few passers by every now and then; a woman with shopping bags talking to a mobile phone, a young couple riding a scooter and a northeast-Indian looking family huddled under a large pine tree waiting for the rain to stop. All this made me think of the distances these people must travel on a daily basis. Walking behind the two boys with their backpacks and school uniforms through the pouring bursts of monsoon that kept interrupting our walk made me think how I at their age used to bemoan my 1 km walk to school. Needless to say, I felt slightly embarrassed.

The hills sloping down from the bungalow were spotted with the occasional country house with cornfields and cows. Coming from the constant traffic of Delhi, the surrounding silence broken only by the silent hum of the distant Kemptey falls seemed soothing yet overwhelming at the same time.

A girl with her cows. Some of the pictures of people may be a bit blurry because I have so far taken the photos more or less secretly. I am still a bit unsure how people here react to photos taken from them. I will try to make a habit of asking first, when possible.

People in Delhi keep reminding me that Delhi is not India and that one should try to get out of the city as soon and often as possible to experience the real India, whatever that means. In any case, Mussoorie, albeit somewhat of a random choice for a first stretch outside Delhi, was a true breath of fresh air and gave the needed break from the chaos and heat among which I spend most of my days here while at the same time evoking a thirst for more explorations on the subcontinent.

Snapshots

Dear readers,

First and foremost, apologies for the lazy posting. I have recently moved from ever so lively Gwyer Hall to another hostel, the International Student House, which has caused some extra inconvenience, thus preventing me from updating the journal.While waiting for another proper entry, here's the last month in pictures.

Here's where it all begins, my home metro station. The name Vishwa Vidyalaya means "university" in Hindi, or if translated literally, "the universal house of knowledge", a prime example of the superfluity that's embedded in  the fabric of Indian everyday.

The concrete jungle is indeed overwhelming for a green Delhiite and naivigating during the first few days proved to be a challenge. Fortunately, Dan, our adept geographer, equipped himself with a map and was able to locate us again (almost, at least).

The lush entrance to the Gwyer Hall hostel, my former residence.

The pouring monsoon caused serious flooding in the hostel inner yard, emphasizing its tropical atmosphere. Unfortunately, the humidity was fruitful breeding ground for mosquitoes as well.

A view from the rooftop.

My humble (former) room. Described in more detail in the first post.

The backyard pet monkey, which I decided to name Barry, as it did not seem to have a name. Judging by the look on Barry's face, he did not seem too happy to be photographed while having lunch.

 Barry spends most of his time observing hostel life from his tree.

My everyday meal for the last month: roti bread, raw onions, cucumbers and curry potatoes with okra served with dal (lentil soup) and rice. Simple, yet nourishing and delicious.

Someone is clearly not happy with the way Nelson treats the hostel computers.

A sleepy monkey starts his daily grind of primate shenanigans in the early hours, as the city awakes.

The kiosk at the metro station. The bearded man in the back is sitting on a pedestal legs crossed in a lotus position holding a huge stack of money he gives to the cashiers whenever they need change.

Old and new meet seamlessly in the daily traffic. The placard in the background is advertising anti-ragging affidavits, which is a document that certifies that the student will not engage in an act of ragging, which apparently has become a severe issue in the Delhi University campus as the senior students have shamelessly abused freshmen.

Delhi University has also launched a fervent anti-smoking campaign supported by some rather vivid artwork.

The animal loving people Indians are, the university surroundings are teaming with all sorts of wildlife. Dogs are particularly common and they are allowed to roam free in the campus area.

Nappy Puppy & Bike

The streets of Delhi are also filled with all manner of two to eight legged creatures. This cow decided to express his frank opinion on private automobiles in a more subtle way. Hopefully the owner was not in a hurry.

Similarly, this dog decided to use public space creatively.

Delhi is a huge city, especially for a street dog. Unfortunately the auto-rickshaw driver did not budge from his no-canines policy.

Delhi is a rough place for a foreigner with all sorts of dangers lurking on every street corner. Luckily, the local homeboys got our back. 

The Dalai Lama

Tuesday 10.08.2010


The day had begun rather uneventfully. After my usual morning rituals of showering, stretching and tea, I headed for the university through my usual shortcut through the university gardens and department of astrophysics to avoid the touting rickshaw-wallahs* repeating their usual sales pitch “Hello Sir, Metro Metro?”, as if the metro station was the only place a gora** like me would have any business in.

I arrived at my college only to realize that the class was once again cancelled. I took an abrupt u-turn and was already heading back to the hostel to finish my early morning nap when I was blocked by a buzzing crowd in front of the Viceregal Lodge of Delhi University, a colonial festhall and Vice-Chancellor’s office and a former residence of Lord Mountbatten, the last viceroy of British India. I spotted some friends of mine in the crowd and went to ask what the fuss was about only to discover that none less than the Dalai Lama was about to speak in a few moments inside the Lodge. Realizing a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, I jumped into the stream of people flowing in and showed the security guards my local student ID granting me free access. After two thorough frisks and careful inspections of my bag contents, a sullen tibetan security guard pointed me to the closest seat available.

Inside the Logde, anticipation was in the air. The security guards were running from one end of the hall to another while giving and receiving directions from their headsets. The murmur of the crowd filled the room and the high society of Delhi’s academia as well as freshmen with their backpacks debated in whispers what the Lama would talk about. While the stylish elderly Indian professors, men in their clean cut khaki suits and women in their colourful saris, were still flowing into the room, the large backdoors of the stage flung open. The whole crowd sprang up instantly and the room was filled with pin-drop silence***. Escorted by his assistant monks, the Dalai Lama walked slowly to the stage and greeted the audience with the customary namaste greeting, to which the crowd courteously retorted, and with a nonchalant wave of the arm told the people to sit down.

After some brief introductory speeches by the university staff, the Lama was given the stage.

The speech, titled “Ethics for the New Millennium”, encompassed several topics and progressed and digressed from one subject to other with occasional anecdotes evoking ripples of chuckles within the crowd. The lama was a charismatic public speaker and performer, whose presence with its aura of eminent wisdom combined with idiosyncratic English diction resembled that of Master Yoda from Star Wars. (Thanks to my friend Vicki for pointing this out.)

Mostly the speech revolved around themes such as religious harmony and the principle of non-violence. Being obviously directed to Indians, the lama praised India as a prime example of a country where people of various creeds coexist more or less seamlessly (what with the occasional break of violence). To him, the principle of non-violence, ahimsa, should be treated as India’s number one export and with that background India should take a more active role in addressing conflicts in the global field.

When the lecture came to the topic of religious fundamentalism and its effects, Lama brought up the concept of the ”educated believer”. With this he meant that when it comes to religion, it is of vital importance that one weighs religious dogmas and tenets with similar rigor as scientific questions rather than blindly accepts them as what they are. Like science, religion should be under constant scrutiny to be able to renew itself and maintain its relevance. With this, he also referred to himself and reminded that one should not take everything he says as some kind of esoteric truth. Lama’s teachings emphasize the importance of the individual. It seems that to him, it is the individual who creates its perception reality and ethics. Social constructs such as religion may only serve as a vessel towards a more enlightened existence. They are not the answer.

On a similar note, Lama pointed out that one should not expect governments or international bodies such as United Nations to solve the world’s problems overnight, but that the true sustainable change comes from the individual, which is where the practice of non-violence starts from. The practice should encompass all forms of life and thus all forms of life should be treated with equal respect, including mosquitoes, no matter how irritating they are. To this an Indian lady from the crowd asked the Lama, how should one deal with the fact that mosquitoes spread malaria and are therefore harmful to humans. To this Dalai Lama quickly retorted, “Ma’am, if we would follow your logic all the way, it would mean that all humans with diseases should be eliminated as well. We do not have the authority to decide on other beings’ lives.” (Possibly excluding self-defence.)

After a good hour, the Lama ended his speech with a simple “I think this is the end of my speech”, which was greeted by a roaring applause. After the event the crowd was invited to the yard of the lodge for some tea and biscuits. An uneventful day had taken a rather delightful turn.

* rickshaw driver
** white man
*** an Indian English idiom meaning overwhelming silence

08.08.2010
Sunday. After a night of lulling drizzle of the monsoon, I was woken up around noon by the cheers and batting sounds of the children playing cricket on the yard across my room. The dust of the field had mostly turned into a sinking pool of mud during the night, but that did not seem to slow the future professional athletes down. Most nights the sweltering heat grants me only a couple hours of consecutive sleep, but the cool rains bring an occasional relief. Coming from a country like Finland, which basically has two seasons, cold-as-hell and ultra-freeze, the general summer temperature of 30°C is something that’ll take time to adjust to. I had sworn never to complain about heat, but now…I’m not so sure anymore.

It has been almost a month since I arrived in Delhi and I am still having trouble absorbing the fact that I will be spending almost a year here. The announcement about a new bilateral agreement between University of Helsinki and University of Delhi had already appeared to my inbox in December. Without giving it much thought, I applied and, to my surprise, was granted the scholarship to study in India for two semesters. However, this needed to be confirmed by both universities and after a painstaking anticipation of several months the final notice of my acceptance came from Delhi; Two weeks before the deadline for the beginning of the semester. Within a measly two weeks time, I was supposed to find myself suitable accommodation, apply for a visa, say a wistful farewell to my dear friends (once again), and empty my apartment from all the junk that had accumulated over the three years I had lived there. Surprisingly, all pieces of the puzzle fell into their right places without greater hassle and as a result, I now find myself on the other side of the world on the North Campus of Delhi University writing this.

I live in the Gwyer Hall student hostel which dates back to the 1930’s, a time before India’s independence from the British rule. The building complex looks like something that could’ve been the quarters of the Imperial army staff with its elephant emblems on the balconies and its barred windows (in reality, it was a meant for student accommodation from the beginning). The room I stay sports a delightfully innovative interior design combining organic, natural elements like spiderwebs, ants and lizards with compact, industrial solutions like bare concrete floors and metal bars on windows. A true equilibrium of nature and man.

Life in Gwyer Hall is like a 24h Discovery channel special on the urban wildlife of India. Cleaning up the room the other day, I opened the window to let some air into the room. As a result, I spent the better half of the day trying to shoo two lizards out of the room. The slippery bastards they are, I may have to accept the fact that I now have two new pets in my room. Suggestions for names are welcome. The building is also surrounded by a mafia of monkeys that loiter on the roofs, fences and surrounding treetops waiting for a chance to get into the premises to raise monkey hell. The security guards’ morning routines seem to include chasing them with long bamboo sticks. An appropriate soundtrack to this exercise is provided by the Bollywood music blasting from the tiny speakers of their mobile phones attached to the belt. In the backyard, tied to a short leash in a tree, resides the pet monkey of Gwyer Hall, who spends most of the time sitting in the tree, circling his small area around, flashing his pointy baboon-teeth to whoever dares to venture too close, or watching the Buddhist monks playing badminton on the adjacent court. I have yet to find out what his name is, but I shall report back once I find out. The monkeys around the house seem to circulate his territory, as if trying to come up with a plan to free him. I await in great anticipation how the situation between guards and monkeys escalates. Right now, the situation seems to be in a standstill.

So, apart from the 24 hour nature documentary, Gwyer Hall broadcasts a host of other shows on different channels. On channel 1 (the balcony outside the apartment), there is the monkey’s daytime show during the day and Buddhist Badminton in the evenings. On channel 2 (the window on the left side of the balcony, shows the Labourer Camp reality TV, which seems to be a kind of a lifestyle show as it features the migrant street labourers in the adjacent camp cooking over their bonfire and doing yoga exercises on the roofs of their huts. Channel 3, which is the window of my room, shows mostly junior league cricket.

I have spent the first few weeks getting to know my new neighbourhood and playing the treasure hunting game of getting certificates, stamps and signatures (which is a form of art in its own right) for the range of documents that need to be submitted to a host of offices in order to make my presence in the city known. Being an apparently orally oriented culture that relies on vast social networks, getting information alone can be a harrowing quest. Being a country known for its formidable army of computer nerds, the information available online has been surprisingly scarce. Anyway, this is a topic which I may return to in greater detail later on, as the intricacies of the bureaucratic culture of India alone has shelves of literature dedicated to it.

Although I’d like to think of myself as a person who has travelled around and seen the world, I have never seen anything like the streets of Delhi. Walking down the narrow alleys and bustling bazaars as well as the chaotic markets of the city is a true assault on senses. A mere walk to the local shopping area demands artful dodging of rickshaws, cars, buses, cows, dogs, elephants(!), huge potholes and people napping in the middle of the street. A skill I shall hopefully learn to master.

One feature that rather illustratively encapsulates the society of extremes that India is, is its smells. As you trudge on in the traffic and commotion, you’re greeted with a confusing cocktail of raw sewage, cardamom, cow dung, jasmine, urine, cinnamon, rotting garbage, incense and a variety of other smells and odours that on one moment lure you in while at the next make you nauseous. This constant interplay of sweet and sour is something that has struck me during these first two weeks; How the overwhelming opulence and splendour and the excruciating poverty and squalor coexist next to each other, how the pinstriped businessman casually steps over a legless beggar and how the ramshackle buildings stand humbly next to the gleaming spires of five-star hotels and multinational company headquarters. Yet, there seems to be a strange dynamism between the two extremes that makes the Indian society what it is.

So, here are some initial sentiments and first thoughts. Let this general description serve as a prologue to a series of entries that will cover a variety of topics relating to whatever it is I happen to stumble upon while living here.