Key and Barrier

On a Thursday morning in April 2013, one of the conference rooms of Park Plaza hotel of West Delhi was teeming with young Indians, nervously shifting around on their seats, palms sweaty and fingertips rubbing against each other. With ever vigilant eyes, they were being monitored by the staff of the British Council for any attempts for cheating: The oral part of the IELTS (International English Language Testing System) exam was about to start. The aspiring students and young professionals were one by one called in front of the room first for what resembled a mugshot, after which they were asked to return to their seat. A regular flow of examiners with their staff member badges confidently swinging came in to the room taking examinees to the corridor of the floor the Council had reserved itself for the day. They were placed to wait outside one of the rooms and during those passing minutes everything they had learned at school would soon be put to the ultimate test - years of work would be either rendered completely redundant or a seal of success would be stamped. Failure to speak English fluently could make scholastic achievement in any other field useless, and thus an aspiring young talented scientist could remain forever obscure, if he was to fail to enunciate properly.

The differences in the examinees reactions gave away their educational background. The English-medium educated kid would keep shifting position on his chair out of sheer "let's just get this over with" boredom, whereas the Hindi-medium kid might be paralyzed in terror waiting for his linguistic dismemberment to begin. The only distraction to their stress would be the sight of my white face among the hundreds of Indian faces. I was in the process of applying for a Master's programme abroad and coming from a non-English speaking country, the IELTS-certificate was needed. Hence, I had merrily joined thousands of aspiring young Indians waiting to prove their worth. Every young person's prospect for a successful career in India would start here - mastery of the English language.

Even while registering for the exam a few weeks earlier, the whole building of the British Council in Delhi had  had an ominous and intimidating presence. After submitting the application, the great initiation would loom in the near future. Soon, you would be put to the ultimate test of "hero or zero" and it all would boil down to correct conjugation of irregular verbs, mastery of idioms and phrasal verbs, correct pronunciation of word-initial consonant clusters and accurate placement of schwa. Failure to twist your tongue the right way would catapult you immediately back several decades to the village and eternal mediocrity - the ultimate nightmare of a young aspiring Indian. The glitzy malls and shiny office complexes of the big cities of their dreams would then manifest only as deadening dens of underachievement, as the fate of working as a waiter or a security guard would become the painful reminder of what was promised to them, but then taken away right in front of their noses. All because they had told the examiner they had "pijja" for "läänch" and they like girls with "ishtrait häär" and "fäär compläxion".

To unlearn all this had been pounded repeatedly into their heads at the many dubious coaching institutes with the words "British", "Oxford" or "Cambridge" in it. Would it all be worth it? At least the official sounding name of the institute had evoked images of authority and the course had given the necessary confidence boost.

A week later it would be time for the written exam. It was still a good while before the exam would start, but already hundreds of young people were shuffling around the premises nervously. While queuing to the exam venue, a girl in front of me would keep reciting English words as if in prayer while a couple of young Sikh boys were keeping up a very artificial conversation just to keep the language flowing, carefully watching out for the pitfall of breaking into Hindi/Punjabi mid-sentence, which would otherwise have been their daily way of communcating. Everywhere I pointed my ears in a largely Hinglish-speaking crowd, only English was spoken with zero Hindi-adulteration, almost as some kind of a linguistic policing measure.

Eventually approximately 500 Indians and one bewildered Finn were directed to the examination hall to their designated seats. A huge timer was dominating the space, making everyone painfully aware how limited their time to complete the exam would be. Soon enough, the hurried rustle of some 500 pencils racing through the multiple choice answer sheets filled the air. Under considerable stress, even the simplest task may become confusing. As an English major, I found myself instantly humbled as I realized that I actually had to concentrate on the exercises to write the answers in correct form in the correct answer sheet. There was no room for error as time was ticking away.

Not all were able to focus. The entire hall lifted their heads for a passing second, as a young man was suddenly firmly escorted out of the hall. He had not stopped writing when time was up. The very animated youngster was waving his hands in the air in panic and frustration and begged for a second chance demanding justice, but the examiners had none of it. Failure to follow instructions in the slightest resulted in immediate disqualification. The young man had just wasted 9000 rupees (120 euros) for a moment's absent-mindedness and taken several steps back in his career development.

The other night I was at home with an electrician who had come to fix a constantly overheating plug. The man was deeply concentrated on his work and impressively crafty in his trade. Communcation between us was done with a mix of English and Hindi, both filling the gaps with either of the languages - the sort of linguistic flexibility which is very commonplace in India and which is very innovative and inspiring. The man did his job brilliantly, but after packing his kit and shaking my hand, he felt appropriate to apologise for his "bad English". I had just marvelled at the electrician who had done his job so efficiently and quickly, and here was the same man pleading for fogiveness from me. Needless to say, I felt awkward and stunned, but also remembered, that I had experienced the same with many autorickshaw drivers. After the "hello" and "how are you" they would switch back to Hindi and sometimes apologise for not speaking English, but might quickly and proudly add that their children were studying in an English-medium school, so that they would not end up like their father. I shrugged at the electricians apology with a mildly outraged "no problem at all", to which he went on to mention that he had excelled in social studies and maths and if it wasn't for his poor command of English, he would not be doing this job.

“The arithmetic and algebra he could manage, and Hindi he was good at. But English, and every other subject — all of them taught in English — fried his brains. He was not alone in this. The entire school was full of boys whose brains were being detonated by Shakespeare and Dickens and Wordsworth and Tennyson and memoriam and daffodils and tiger tiger burning bright and solitary reapers and artful dodgers and thous and forsooths and the rhymes of ancient mariners. The first counter-attack Kabir M made on English was in Class IV when he learnt like the rest of his reeling mates to say, ‘Howdudo? Howdudo?’ The answer being: ‘Juslikeaduddoo! Juslikeaduddoo!’ It set the pattern for life for most of them. English was to be ambushed ruthlessly when and where the opportunity arose. Its soldiers were to be mangled, shot, amputated wherever they were spotted. Its emissaries to be captured and tortured. The enemy of English came at them from every direction: in the guise of forms to be filled, exams to be taken, interviews to be given, marriage proposals to be evaluated. The enemy English had a dwarfing weapon: it made instant lilliputs of them.”

- Tarun Tejpal - The Story of My Assassins

(For more on this topic, read here http://tehelka.com/the-english-median/)

Nepal

As my first venture out of India to explore another South Asian country, Nepal seemed an easy choice. Hence, me and Meg packed our backpacks and headed to Pokhara to chill by the beautiful Phewa lake, to stalk on wildlife in Chitwan national park and check out the hustle and bustle of Kathmandu. Here's the trip in pictures.

Boaters on the Phewa lake in Pokhara.

The Phewa lake

A kid upto some shenanigans.

One night in Pokhara we stumbled upon a group of British gurkha troops who had come to Pokhara for a meeting. Any further details they refused to disclose, but turned out to be a right laugh. The evening turned into an all nighter. The British-run elite military unit known as the Gurkhas are one of Nepal's best known exports and it's still many a young Nepali man's dream to become part of this reputable force.

Sunset at the Phewa lake.

A vehicle straight out of Mad Max.

Nepali Thali - according to my Bengali companion, very closely resemblant of Bengali food in flavour and level of spice.  Nepal generally seemed to have fairly close links to Bengal in terms of cultural influences.

Laundry.

Taking a ride on one of the local minibuses, the man in the front is the cashier whose job is also to announce the stop and the destination in the same speed and volume of auctioneers. 

Still 50 years to go before the grand opening!

The landscapes between Kathmandu and Pokhara reminded me slightly of Assam with their green hills and abundant rice fields. 

Most of the time in Pokhara the Annapurna mountain range  was obscured by either clouds or the afternoon haze of smog. Typically, the day we were leaving the weather was clear enough to enjoy the range in its full glory.

A lady harvesting rice, near the Kathmandu - Pokhara highway.

The Boudhanath stupa is one of the most important pilgrimage sites of Tibetan buddhism. The dome itself is claimed to contain some remains of the Buddha but nobody knows for sure as it has been sealed for aeons.

Bindis on sale at Pashupatinath, the most important pilgrimage site of Hinduism in Nepal.

Pre-assembled sets of offerings on sale - spirituality made convenient.

Kumkum stall at Pashupatinath, surrounded by the usual Hindu gods and a new unrecognized one(?)

Outraged by the rip-off prices at the roadside eatery our busdriver chose, we walked further down the road and found this young man running a fine establishment with his mother. He served us an exotic local delicacy called Maggi. 

Elephant rider takes five before loading another group of tourists...

...such as these.

The Chitwan national park is one of the most famous national parks in Asia and one of the best sites to spot the endangered one-horned rhino. This guy seemed unfazed by being surrounded by elephants loaded with Korean tourists incessantly documenting its movements with an iPad.

Sun sets over Chitwan while local boys try to catch some fish.

As our budget was getting tighter towards the end of the trip , we had to locate the cheapest dinner in town. At the very end of the Chitwan downtown main strip, this guy gladly made us some delicious momos from scratch. 

The bundle of chilis, garlic and lime can usually be found at the doorways of South Asian houses  to ward off evil spirits.

This door on one of the narrow streets of old Kathmandu will not only ward of evil spirits but probably most other guests as well.

Rickshawallahs seem to be the same everywhere you go. You stand on one corner and they holler at you every five minutes, just in case you change your mind. "Rickshaw?" "No thanks"..."how about now?"..."Now? No?"..."What about now?"

A kid waiting for his Jhalmuri. 

Authentic Experiences

My neighbourhood has a significant population of western people. There are a lot of big cars with blue "CD" and "UN" plates parked in front of the swankiest looking houses in the area. Whenever I go to my market for daily groceries, I'm bound to see at least one white face over there, either walking around with a determined swagger of perfect ethnic adaptation or looking lost and awkward like a kid separated from his parents in an amusement park.

Every now and then I bump into them in one of the stores on the main strip. It usually ends up being a very awkward encounter. It happens more often than not around here when two white people meet in a setting other than an expat party. They eye each other askance and try to ignore the other gora in the room as if they were the only white person in Delhi. The other white person scans the shelves and tries to chat the errand boys in broken Hindi, because he's the one who's blending in, whoever this other white impostor is, must be a spoiled "UN" or "Embassy" type who had to come down to the cornershop only because the organic home delivery was not available today. The other one is the one must be the one who's living the "authentic Indian" lifestyle. Meanwhile, the Indian shopkeeper watches the show with puzzlement. He might sincerely expect a friendly exchange between the westerners of "where are you from" and "what are you doing in India", but no, they quickly pick up their groceries, pay, and leave the shop in hurried manner, leaving the small change on the counter.

There is strange psychology about this behaviour, which seems to be a mix of a subtly colonial attitude mixed with romanticed expectations of the "ethnic" and "authentic" experieces that they are going to have with the "locals" in the foreign country. Then they can go back and their ordeal in harsh conditions can be added to their CV of "unique experiences" that the person has had. The satirical "Stuff Expat Aid Workers Like" - blog quite fantastically summarizes this phenomenon (the comments are worth reading too). The anecdote is set in Central America, but could might as well be in India. A white person bumps into another in a small local café:

So it’s no wonder that she’ll look away or stare straight through that American dude that shows up at the little market at the same time. ”Oh, your husband?” the corn lady might say. “No no,” the EAW will struggle to explain aloud, “I don’t know him. I’ve never seen him. I don’t know what he might be doing here….” We have nothing to do with one another, nothing at all in common…she will continue in her head… I’m a long-timer. I’ve got field cred. He’s probably a short-term volunteer or a tourist or a consultant, here for a short trip. He probably knows none of your customs. I bet you don’t wave at him when he goes by. He’s likely one of those typical Expat Aid Workers types, tromping around, clueless, feeling uncomfortable and superior to the locals. I’d bet he doesn’t even speak the language or really know any local people except for his driver. I’m the one who’s locally integrated. I’m the one who belongs here, not him!

Humph. These other foreigners, trespassing on the EAW’s own individual and patented experience of adventure and local living. Who do they think they are? Why do the locals assume all white people know each other, or might want to greet one another with smiles and handshakes, treat each other to a portion of roasted corn and explain where they are from and what they are doing there at the roadside market? Really. These locals don’t understand EAWs at all.

Some of this hard-wired antisocial behaviour might be explained by the fact that the aid-worker/UN/NGO racket is a very competitive game of whoever speaks the most languages, feels more comfortable in various settings and has established their field cred by living in "harsh" conditions, i.e. the way local people in that country normally live in.


I was in an afterparty invited by my friends who I had met in the bar the same night and everybody was enjoying themselves with some drinks on a rooftop on a hot Delhi night. The bubbling discussion diverted into work and somebody casually asked me what I was doing. When I told them that I work in the embassy it was as if the you could've heard the sound of the needle skipping on a record, they looked at me with mixed faces of contempt and ridicule, "oh so you're one of those people, Embassy heads, huh?". They never bothered to explain what they meant by this, but instead continued on lecturing how this little NGO where they were doing a 3-month unpaid internship, was the most important humanitarian endeavour in the history of development work. A spoiled "Embassy head" would never understand such things, though.


Another explanation why western people can be very awkward with their kind abroad has to do with the whole industry of "authentic experiences", a form of tourism really, which is a result of a kind of a post-consumerist culture, where many young western find themselves in these days. Buying things from a store has lost its novelty value and is more like a necessity, even going to a package holiday with the family is comparable to eating at McDonald's, it's almost embarrassing in it's mundanity - therefore one must do something that nobody else has done, something unique, like going to the most obscure place they can find in the map, hell-bent on understanding the local culture, living with the people, to have a true ethnic experience! So they quit their job and take a gap year:

But much to their consternation, after smoking hash with the sadhus while riding a rabid camel in Rajasthan and hangliding with the buddhist monks in Bhutan while doing cocaine or getting accidentally married to the village chief's daughter in Laos drunk on the local spirits or whatever other compromising situation they get themselves in, they realize that no matter how hard they've tried, someone else has been there already, or worse yet, is ruining their authentic ethnic experience by being there right now. There's a loud group of Israelis on post-military service holiday, a German couple of rat-race dropouts in their early forties and a bunch of 21-year old French girls who just finished their NGO-internship and are now backpacking before going home and they are all waiting for their turn for the unique ethnic experience.

Constant Rave

It's ubiquitous; the steady thump of the 4/4 bassdrum the autotuned vocalization of a current or a recycled hit song and the following frantic synthesizer loop penetrate the soundscape everywhere. Delhi's public space seems to have fallen victim by a militant spoon-feeding marketing campaign conspiracy of house music producers, where no public space is left without a sound system blasting top 40 house remixes, making your daily activities into a constant rave party, whether you want it or not. Every single public space is filled with loud, abrasive, commercial electronic music.

The other day I went to a mall to catch a new Hindi-film. As I was being frisked by the jaded security guard at the door, one couldn't help feeling as if I was on the queue to a night club. Passing throught the marbled hallways of retail, I had to traipse through the food court, where obese punjabi kids were franticly stuffing their faces with various forms of deep fried matter to the beat of the inhouse DJ. Elbows sharpened I ventured on to the movie hall, hoping to enter a different aural space, only to realize that the soundsystem of the mall seemed to be connected to every single room in the complex, making the party inescapable. Come intermission (it is common in Indian movie halls to have a mid-film break), Mr DJ was immediately back at the decks. Feeling slightly nauseous, I had to seek comfort in the soothing atmosphere of the washroom, only to find myself in boogie wonderland. The volume of the music did not drop a single bar.

A lone toilet attendant, a small man in his late 50s maybe, was standing at the corner waiting to hand out paper tissues to people. The look on his face was resemblant of a thousand yard stare, "a limp, unfocused gaze of a battle-weary soldier" who has either seen too many piles of dead bodies or been subjected to severe torture. The man's aura was oozing with nihilistic detachment, barely concealed with a token smile.
He had been exposed to this rave party too long to care anymore.

It gets worse in bars. South Delhi sees new bars emerging these days quicker than ever, yet the concept seems to always remain the same. Every bar has to be a "lounge bar" where the amount of staff is usually manifold compared to the clientele, but one still has to make a real effort to get any service. An army of jaded staff is leaning against the counter while the house music party keeps blaring in the back. Any kind of attempt of conversation with your company is systematically terminated by the sheer volume of the music and the spontanious flow of conversation is often reduced to loud bursts of monosyllabic sentences which deliver the maximum amount of information. This needs to be done, because the music is so loud that every sentence must be carefully thought through to avoid wastage of vocal chords.

After two and a half years in Delhi, I have still yet to find a watering hole where one can have a quiet drink alone or a relaxed conversation with a friend or a partner after work over a beer. This seems to be too much to ask in the city of constant rave. Quiet pubs and bars where most of the noise is created by the bubbling conversations of customers is an integral part of the social fabric of western culture. The cliched euphenism "extension of living room" summarizes the way bars and pubs are seen in many western countries. They are welcome to people in suits, coctail dresses, working overalls as well as sweatpants and crocs. They are places where you can have a raging party or where you can sit quietly and wallow in your sorrow. Coming from Finland, where being sad and quiet is your general state of being, it is especially of vital importance to have spaces where one can sit in silence and stare at the bottom of your pint, comfortably basking in your wistful melancholia.

Having tried to market the concept of opening a cozy no-frills pub with only quiet music or no background music somewhere in south Delhi has only resulted in somewhat tepid interest and shrugs among Delhiites. One explanation that has been offered to me is that indians generally are uncomfortable with silence, hence in case of premature death of conversation in company, the silent spaces can be quickly filled by Mr.DJ. Also, the concept of going to a bar for a casual drink whenever generally seems to be still a bit of an alien concept, rather it is always more of a remarkable social event for which one needs to dress up and make an extra effort, perhaps the loud techno and house music is seen as a part of the desired atmosphere. Be it as it may, there is certainly a market in Delhi for a cosy corner with an extensive bar menu, comfy chairs and no music but the ripples of conversations in the background.

Snapshots pt.4

Pigeons at Humayun's tomb.

One man's livelihood.

A barber takes five, while son is keeping an eye on the shop.

Indian IKEA

Fresh tandoori rotis at the Nizamuddin village.

A man takes a nap with his goats as the wife supervises.

"So this is where your chicken tikka comes from, my friend."

Graffiti on the way to my house. These buildings were marauded soon after. The plot is waiting for new construction to emerge, as is typical in Delhi, where land is much sought after.

A goat herder was tending his flock near Tughlaqabad fort, the big goat was called Basanti.

The cornershop in my area sells anything from sim card recharge to fresh samosas.

The other night on our way to a party Meg parked her car in front of a house next to the venue, the owner of the house punctured all tires as soon as we turned our backs. We tried driving, but soon had to leave the car to a random spot and take an auto back home. The next morning we realized we had parked right in front of a tire shop.