A culture of shame?

Right now I am a young woman in India. Now is the time to talk about being such.
I had not mentioned the heinous crime against a woman my age, Nirbhaya, in Delhi because I knew people at home would worry. But outrage has snowballed here and spilled into the rest of the world and yesterday brought me a "be safe" message.
Because its not just Nirbhaya that is a victim, it is many women. In Delhi 1 rape is reported every 18 hours, and now that this has been suddenly leapt into the public conscience questions are being asked how this has happened?
Of course I don't have the answers to the questions. But here I see many versions of India and its baffling.
The first India is a place where we are warned to keep our knees and shoulders covered with baggy clothes. A place where our rickshaw driver keeps us out of the crowd in the line for street food because he's worried someone will touch us (I should add that we felt this an unnecessary measure). A place where men's eyes fall out if they drive past a girl in leggings.
The second India is glittering, glamorous Bollywood, where scantily clad women dance to the catcalls of an audience.
The third seems to be glimpsed in the young and progressive, in those who have taken to the streets to protest against a terrible crime and furthermore against deep-rooted and outdated attitudes.
Let me tell you about the palace at Udaipur. A daughter of the king was so beautiful and good she had two competing suitors who would go to war if the king did not pick them. The king, seeing only one solution for peace, poisoned the princess.
This act becomes even more unbelievable when you consider the fact that the women of the household where kept away from the eyes of all men...always shut away behind curtains.
To a certain extent, some of these issues still exist.
You know when you check into some hotels, women have to write the name of their father or husband, as if they aren't a valid person without a man-owner. In train stations there are separate waiting rooms for men and women.
As we have travelled around, we have found it quite a challenge to find women to talk to. When we meet a husband and wife, the man does all the talking, usually even answering questions directed at his wife. I don't know if the women are shy or don't speak english well, or we've been unlucky? But it felt for a long time that we didn't hear any women's voices.
On the other hand, our first weeks here we were travelling with a man. Now, Jure is a wonderful person...very funny and interesting, but since he left us we have not seen close to the respect he inspired. Is it because we aren't as funny and interesting? Or is it because we are single women?
So what about Bollywood? Isn't that a measure of freedom? Well, apparently not. There have been articles questioning why the films show the heroes harrassing and pursuing heroines who say no again and again...and still in the end, the man gets the girl. What message, the newspaper asks, does that give to young impressionable audiences?
I don't know if I ever believe popular culture really makes people do bad things. Its the same as rap being blamed for violence. But art mirrors life and where you see a recurrent problem in one, it is probably reflected in the other. A lack of respect of women does not come from movies, but both come from a common cause surely.
Might I also mention Suresh, our flute teacher and a respectable artist man. When we told him we' d seen the karma sutra a temples at Khajuraho, he said will never go there because he is ashamed. Ashamed of his own heritage? Ashamed of human nature? Is this culture of shame to blame?
I'm not an anthropologist, and I don't know India well enough to judge but third India gives me hope. It is an India that sees problems and demands change and I hope, for the happiness of all, they succeed.

An apology

Hmmm...considering I want to be a writer I feel I'm being most ill-disciplined about this blog.
This has been brought to my attention by 2 sources in the last couple of days.
The first, my mum asked why I hadn't written a blog on the Taj Mahal?
The second, my first reading of a blog of a fellow traveller we met in Udaipur. Drew's blog (much more successfully than mine) is a daily and detailed journal of his adventures.
But I conceed defeat. A couple of blogs a week is enough for me (I'm busy don't you know/asleep very early), I hope it's enough for you reader?
So why didn't the Taj make the cut? Well, perhaps because it was so exquisitely beautiful that you must go yourself. I could never do justice to the moment it seems to grow in front of you, gleaming white, perfectly balanced, stunningly romantic.
The other reason I never wrote about it is that apart from its own glorious self, it brought the same themes I've covered before: constant requests for photos of us with a multitude of families and tour groups. As if we were an attraction worthy of competing against the Taj (Ha)!
So that is your only glimpse into our stay in Agra. So what else did I miss?
A Goan Christmas: lobster dinner, Midnight's Children on the beach, swimming in the Arabian sea. Seems a trifle smug doesn't it?
Camel safari or horse riding: yes fun to go on but I would be afraid to bore you with descriptions of rolling hill or desert sunsets. I'll simply tell you I'm having a wonderful time.
I don't want to tell you the minutae of my day to day life. Look at my pictures (well..Kirsty's pictures. Much better photographer) and you'll see it all.
In the meantime, please excuse my lack of discipline and shortage of posts. With only two weeks left in India I'd better get my eyes in focus and pen in hand for the last chances I'll get to share a little piece of this lovely, sometimes broken, but always epic country with you.

Bollywood

I write this blog from a Goan beach. I will not, however be writing about this glorious place just yet. The only things worth mentioning are the golden sand, the colourful parachutes drifting over a blue sea and my straw hat which is possibly the best thing I've ever bought.
Boring, no? And might I add...haha!
No, I will not write about a place I was looking forward to going to, but about a place I was not: Mumbai.
It surprised us both how much we liked it. We were only there for a day and a half but we met some very kind people there: a couple of sea captains who we drank coffee with as they explained what to see in the city, and gave us a lift in swanky white car to the cinema; the boy who showed us the gateway to india; the Philosopher who imparted so many words of wisdom I forget them all. My favourite was the 2 things everyone gets free in this life: the air we breathe and a trip around the sun. We all know I'm a sucker for a free holiday...and it turns out my life is one long travel!
But anyway, the thing I want to talk about is the cinema. Of course! Mumbai is the capital of Bollywood so obviously our first Bollywood experience had to be there.
So we saw Dabangg 2 and understood no words but got the general gist of the story. You should definitely see it. Very funny...not least the inexplicable breaking into song and dance. It was like one of those old Busby Berkley films, you know, but with slow-mo fight scenes featuring bare-chested men that drew the whoops and whistles of the whole audience.
And the uncontrollable laughter of us.
But you can't deny it, they really know how to enjoy a movie here. I'm not entirely convinced all the characters were relevant though. One dance scene featured a never before or after shown woman as the main singer/dancer. I think they only brought her out because she was pretty (her appearance immediately drew more shouts of appreciation).
Which brings me onto another point that I liked about Bollywood. A hundred women dancing around in croptops and not a six-pack in sight. Basically a much more realist ideal body than we have in Hollywood, no?
Kirsty and I voiced our approval for a full day before planning our Goan beach yoga and sit up fitness regime.
What? We're dancers...it's ingrained! 

People on the train

One of the first things you noticed about India is the sheer amount of people. Considering its such a big country, it feels packed to the rafters.
I'm again writing this blog on a train, this time on the way to Pushkar. Every seat is full, as are the aisles, and a few peoples' laps. There is a boy who is casually leaning a centimeter from my head and the woman next to me has her hand on my knee.
In my polite Britishness I don't tell them to move. Besides..there's no space for them to. Anyway, the man next to me is unashamedly reading every word I write so I'm certainly boosting my readership. I hope you're enjoying this sir.
Perhaps this lack of space is the reason everyone seems so affectionate here. So tactile. If you spend your life in small spaces with lots of people I guess it isn't weird to have a stranger lean on you.
Actually having just finished reading The Jungle Books, and with my head full of wolf packs, man-cubs and The Spring Running it almost seems a little odd that at home I have a whole room to myself..plus the run of a barely inhabited house. When we were jungle people, living in caves the idea of that much space would have been laughable.
And here in this jumble of limbs, where strangers demand your personal space but offer you biscuits in exchange, you suddenly see how unnatural the London Underground is. Often just as packed but with no one touching anyone and everyone staring transfixedly at a poster for car insurance just above their eyeline.
But here in Animal India there are much more interesting things to see..and we all stare. At the rolly-pollying child who jumps up with hand extended. At the rude man, sprawled next to his beautiful, glittering and pouty wife: someone struck lucky in an arranged marriage and by the look on her face... At the transvestites who just walk onto the train, clap their hands and all the men throw money at them, uncomfortable and obviously not wanting to be confronted with such..unnaturalness.
A man spits onto the filthy tracks.
But back to the affection. And I'm talking about a specific kind of affection that you don't see at home: bromance. Men holding hands, lying on each other..it's quite a common thing here. You would think they were gay if they didn't casually say things to you like: "sex, you interested?" Perhaps it's because before marriage male-female relationships don't happen here? I don't know..
So a lack of Western reserve and anything resembling privacy has allowed people here to be very easy with one another. And for us, we try to throw ourselves into the culture but I'd rather not do that with a strange man's head on my shoulder. He obviously hasn't enjoyed the read as it appears to have sent him to sleep.

Touring with the Boys

So I last wrote trapped in a hotel by our fear of jewel smugglers. You'll be pleased to hear that we escaped pretty sharpish, travelling 1000km north to Shimla where some friends of ours we arriving that day on their motorbike tour of the country.

Dear Phil and Roy! Considering this was a quite unexpected destination for us, it has proved to be a bit of a highlight. There' s nothing like a bike to get you off the tourist trail and seeing real life here. If I wasn't so spacial- awareness challenged I'd get my CBT. 

But for the last couple of days we have been "biker chicks." We got matching silly helmets and have been whizzing through the mountains behind the self- titled "Gay boys on tour." All the fun and none of the work...I was gazing at the stunning scenery and thinking about (of all things) The Flintstones, while Roy had to look out for potholes. Ha! But a BIG thank you to them both for looking after we damsels in distress so well. We love you :)

And the men got me wondering, at the end of our trip, will Kirsty and I be as much of an old married couple as Roy and Phil? Or are we now?

As I write my travel wife is also diary- ing. We have companionable writing time every evening. This morning we spontaneously had a dance around, sit- ups and (pathetic) push up (attempt) session. The other day on the freezing sleeper bus we had survival spoon.

When we meet people we tell them we are married...We have quite highly developed storylines by now....but are we actually married to each other? Probably.

Anyway, our bikers are going to do a tour of Thailand next year...wife? Are you busy?

What do you want from me?

There's something in the air at Khajuraho and it isn't sex...whatever the locals tell you about Shiva's penis in the lake, and therefore the increased prowess of everyone in the vicinity.
Apparently if you come to this little town single you are almost certain to have some kind of affair. If I wasn't fake married I'd be in trouble, huh?!
No, apart from the glorious temples with their medieval porn (beautifully crafted porn at that), the thing that strikes me most about Khajuraho is...unease.
You see, all over India so far, people are constantly wanting something. Photos I don't mind, even if it is a bit weird. Talking English with children I obviously don't mind- I know the value of language practice. Just plain curiosity is never a problem.
But then there is the constant symphony of:
"Excuse me Madam...you come see my shop....?...But you, but you are my friend. I give you good price...You want boat? Hashish? Banana? Pashmina...real silk."
Its exhausting. And so difficult making them accept no.
But in the cities you can just walk by and pretend not to hear. You can hide somewhere else for a breath and your own thoughts and company.
Here in Khajuraho its different. Everyone knows everyone else it seems and they all have different advice. The hotel says we shouldnt trust people on the street, they are just trying to sell us stuff. The people we meet on the street say not to trust the hotel as they mark up prices. And they all seem so helpful. And yet...
It now feels like the hotel are monopolising us. They didn't even let us escape for breakfast this morning.
As for our friends we've made around town, they seemed nice. They didn't even try to sell us anything and got us the secret cheap menu at a restaurant. But yesterday we met Uncle Babu: an impressively moustached diamond exporter who invited us to lunch, and to stay at his house in Delhi, and was not happy unless he was telling a moving story about his tragic love life, or his money. If he wasn't involved in a conversation he'd click his fingers until attention was back to him. He was funny but this all seems a bit Don-like. And we found out their angle... you know on a tourist visa you can carry £5000 of stuff out of the country..and if you want to earn some extra cash, just sell it back to the exporters.
Hmmmm....
So we're being sweetened up, but I ain't taking nothing home except the one silk scarf I couldn't say no to. Especially not for a man who hugs you unexpectedly for rather too long.
Shudder.
So now we gave to hide. But that's easy...the hotel won't let us leave anyway.

Good Karma

These past few days have been ones of enlightenment. You can see how easily sensible people morph into hippie types in ali-baba trousers. If it wasn't for the fact that ali-baba trousers look ridiculous on me I might consider joining them.
I write this blog from Varanasi, the magical holy city of Hinduism and we arrived to a particularly enchanting day: the festival for (I think) Shiva. The banks of the Ganga were lined with candlelight, incense wafted along the banks, fireworks lit up the sky, and a few holy cows strutted through the general melee of the devout, the festive and the spectators.
So many people spoke to us, as always, so we had good feelings about this joyful culture.
The next day, however, was an eye-opener. We took a boat ride to see the Burning Ghat. You see the thing Varanasi is most famous for is being the place that people come to die. If you die here and your remains scattered in the sacred Ganga, you can escape the cycle of reincarnation and go straight to Nirvana.
A priest came aboard our boat to explain. He seemed very devout, kind, thoughtful. But part of what he told us made me quite angry. The caste system (which technically has been abolished but in reality...) Is an integral part of the belief system. Basically if you do well in this life, in the next you get to move up a caste. Within your life, no. If you are born an Untouchable, a beggar, a street sweeper, you will die the same. No genius or ambition or kindness on your part can change that. There is no escape except into the Ganga.
For such a beautiful faith it seems rotten at the core.
Now, I must say that this is changing. Probably it is mainly here in the holiest of places that clings to the old ways. In the rest of the country, the very poor remain the very poor because they don't know how to get out, or because as children they are made to beg on the streets to earn money instead of going to school.
Which brings me to Bodgaya. We made a short trip here, to the place where Buddha sat meditating under a Bodhi tree for many weeks and achieved enlightenment.
Another city of temples for another faith. This time instead of the whirl of colour and light we were greeted by the calm stone face of a 25 ft Buddha and a temple of still water and the sound of gongs. And also by a young Nepalise man called Mikku.
Mikku, who trained for two years as a child monk is in Bodgaya to teach and work at an Orphanage. Elizabeth Children's Home. After taking us around the city and explaining the monuments and telling us funny stories about monkeys, Mikku took us to visit the children at the home. We were introduced to all the 32 children in residence, each shook our hand and introduced themselves in English and then they sang a song for us, while the youngest, Matthew, sat on my knee. At less than a year he came in tiny and malnourished, and now here was a happily heavy baby.
The school is Christian founded (hence the Biblical names and halleluiahs) but mainly run by Buddists. As Mikku said, we are all the same anyway. And the same is now true for the children. Instead of being orphans on the street, and getting stuck in their caste and downtrodden position, they are learning Hindi, English, science, being cared for, smiling, and eventually getting a good reference for a good job.
I hate to sound cliche about it all, but it was humbling to see the good things that people like Mikku do in the world. And I hope by sharing this good work, I might get a little good karma too.