Faery Sisters in India

The shirt on our backs, wet with sweat.  It sticks to the ruined leather of the old yellow cab bench seat despite it being 9pm.  Weaving through the traffic, roadside stalls, cows and pedestrians we approach Seldah station with a following of coolies.  Like a swarm of ants, they march with luggage small and large transporting food crumbs to the mother colony.  Back and forth the swarm take over the parking lot ready for the next crumb of food to add to their living.  Not wanting our bags to be lost in the colony of luggage we jump out of the taxi to take hold of our belongings and weave our own way through the chaos.  Our train not due to arrive for a while we search for a space upon the dusty platform to wait.  Amongst the desperate station families, disabled beggars, colourful groups of women, runaway children dressed in rags, middle-class local tourists with their oversized suitcases, and questionable food vendors the platform is a sight of sprawling bodies and scattered colour.  This is a place to people watch.  Railway stations are the centre of movement in any Indian city.  This will be my first Indian train ride.  As we walk along the side of our train searching for our carriage, I try to keep my jaw shut as we pass the overcrowded back carriages, hoping our carriage was well towards the front.  Kat on the top bunk and me on the bottom, we settle in an air-conditioned sleeper carriage.  We slept with our valuables but woke up fresh at our destination, realizing this was the perfect way to travel and would be one of many train journeys from east to west.

Varanasi is one of the most colourful and frenzied cities in India.  At first encounter it’s a confusing and crazy place of colour and death.  As the current sweeps downstream, I wonder if its a horrid sight as the body that appears to be carelessly disposed will inevitably swell and decay, left to be eaten by the fish of the Ganges, with nothing beyond?  Or is it a beautiful occasion, the next step of a spiritual journey, that little closer to a higher good where the body is a gift to return to the creatures it once ate and the soul set free?  It is believed that upon death of a child, pregnant woman, or death by snake these souls are already pure and can be thrown to the bottom of the Ganges to float in its sacred currents.  Others will be consumed by flame and burnt to the smell of sandalwood with only the men of the family present, with the ashes to later float downstream.  Women cannot be seen at this time as the soul cannot risk a tear on this happy occasion of spiritual freedom, but it is the women behind the scenes that prepare the body.  As the days go by my understanding grows and I wander what’s so scary and morose about death.  Here, there will be no black of mourning.  People come from all around, waiting for their turn, for their ashes to float.  Death is natural and it can be beautiful, a time to be grateful.  With contrasting colours, winding narrow streets of mayhem, crowded ghats of morning bathers, surreal calmness of sunrise boat rides, and sacred candle lit evenings on the river banks it is a place like no other.  The middle of the day was difficult to leave our escape from the heat in our air-conditioned room with the days reaching in the high 40degrees, but mornings and afternoons our eyes where filled with wonder and curiosity as we sat at the ghats.   The perfect place to people watch. 

We had met up in Paris, London, and now an Indian adventure.  Our paths kept crossing, and each of us were exactly where we were meant to be.  Kat and my friendship grew with laughter, train rides, getting ripped off and lost in tuk tuks, exploring cities and the extreme heat of deserted towns.  Travelling solo I’m usually happily content in my own world, but after months of living isolated in an Indian village, Kat with her beautiful soul was my breath of fresh air.  If ever there was a time when a friend was needed along my journey, coincidentally Kat has been there.  A familiar face at my first destination, a sister to party with in London, and an embrace back to understanding in India.  It was like checking in on each other, re-spark that faery energy to carry on for our next adventures.  With a goodbye in Delhi we once again had to part ways.  Kat back to London and I was longing to reach the quiet enchantment of the northern mountains.  I was well overdue to leave the heat, dust and chaos of the cities.  However, it seemed my tolerance, immunity and shock level had significantly adapted as crazy sights turn to the everyday norm and any kind of street food was a treat for the stomach.  As I adjusted, I let India slowly consume me in all her craziness and beauty. 

An Afternoon With Betty XII In Rural Kolkata

Darjeeling misty mountain views

Darjeeling streets

Hot Chai is always available

The crowd flocks to tiger mountain Darjeeling in the hope the day will be clear of fog to see the sunrise, this day we were lucky.

Everyone loves a good picture

The prayer flags come thick the closer you get to Tibet

Buddhist Temple Offering

Darjeeling

The life of living in the hills, Darjeeling town sprall 

On the search for something but no one seems to know what, so we stop for chai as this couple welcome us to their home

The search for the field of weed continues, Darjeeling walks

Darjeeling

 Sunrises and the moon sets

 A misty view of the Himalayas at sunrise, Darjeeling

 Tranquil hour with the sound of chanting in the background

 Darjeeling - one of the many Tea Plantations

Sunset over the crowded mountain town

A small town below Darjeeling as this library with the most unusual and interesting collection of books.  These old guys like to hang out here, I wonder what they discuss

A local store - Darjeeling

Kolkata street food

Kolkata lanes

Kolkata flower market, they string the flowers for optimal shrine use

Beautiful and intricate Jainism temple

Jainism temple and garden grounds

An eye for detail

Flower market views

River Ganges through Kolkata, view from Howrah Bridge

Kolkata streets

Victoria Memorial.  The English left some stunning grand architecture, they went more for size than the detail of the Jainism temples

A day at work in the field, community facilitators meeting

Slum visit to weight the some children, some like the scales swining but others don't.

Slum lanes

Community meeting with the mothers for education on nutrition for first 1000days of life

Mothers meeting

Colourful slum, very much a community feel

Mothers meetings aren't very interesting for the children

Bengali education for the mothers

Kolkata streets

 My local street fish market, no ice required despite the sweltering heat

 The local barber in Pailan

 Pailan local shops

 Chicken Butcher - fresh killed and cut chook for your convenience. I wonder if the chickens below know what happens above?

 Family time and business time combines

 Tobacco and weird spice chewing things, everything is curry flavour

 My local street

 Chullah cook stove to the left and curry on the go to the right

 CINI guesthouse, the view from my verandah

 Local store

 Classic bus rides

 Pailan streets

 Women must be covered but men feel free to let their bellies cool off from the heat. Loud bodily noises are also very acceptable even in the middle of mediation

 My local fruit store, pomegranate my breakfast ritual

 Another chicken store, Pailan

 Paneer rolls made fresh

 Pailan streets

 The kitchen staff at CINI

 CINI canteen/dinning room with metal plates

 CINI kitchen staff, everything is done on the ground in India

 One of the children at the nutrition day vaccine clinic, black dot on forehead is to keep evil away

 A rare few men visit the clinic with their wives, often grandmothers or mother-in-laws come while the husband is at work

 Doctor consultations for growth assessment and scripts for the children, often diarrhoea and colds

  Not all the children are happy all the time

 The women and children lining up to fill their scripts

 Holi colour festival

 CINI campus grounds

Holi dust colours

 Dr Chaudhuri, an amazing inspiration, the founder of CINI

 The girls gave me this beautiful sari and come to dress me up

 CINI campus, my home for the last 2months in Pailan

 Pailan streets

 Pailan streets, the rubbish is soul destroying.  Signs promote a 'clean and green Kolkata' but even if the culture changes, there are no bins anywhere

 Pailan delicious street food for 20c

 Local cricket

 Poor chickens

 Pailan streets

 Indians can sleep anywhere! This is one of the better locations compared to the side of the road

 Rickshaw drivers waiting for business

 Just chillin out, Pailan streets

 Pailan shops

 Pailan streets

 Pailan locals, awkward family photo

 Chai wallah

 Pailan local

 Everyone wanted their photos taken, Pailan local

 Plenty of time for relaxing and working

Pailan streets

 Pailan streets

 Pailan streets

 Pailan streets

 Pailan streets

 Pailan streets

Pailan streets

 Pailan streets

 Pailan streets

 Pailan streets, deep friend eggplant and other goods. Indian food is a very high fat diet

 The essentials - potato and onion

 Pailan locals

 Pailan streets

Pailan- my local bus into the city

 Amazing old style bikes

Mens hang out space for cards

As I scan the streets, I see a man sitting in a cement slab structure.  Blood, feathers and fresh killed chicken meat surround him.  There is a large ancient, curved blade, resolute next to him.  The living chickens are crammed in a cage below the slab, stress molting and appear to be living a dismal existence.   The man casually sips his chai, drench from the summer heat.  A break in his working day, he catches my eye.  In a fixed gazed we stare back at each other in a synchronized moment of disbelief.

As the weeks passed I became accustomed to the blatant starring and the culture shock subdued.  However, the starring never seemed to stop for them.  Some stare with an intent look that could’ve been mistaken for wickedness.  Others stare with a shimmer of smile in their eyes, or pure wonder.  At first it’s quite intimidating.  I don’t speak Bengali or Hindi, and few in this rural area speak English.  All I can do is smile.  Body language, a good head nod, and smiling, became my predominant language for next two months. 

Conversational barriers and cultural differences made it a lonely challenge, until one day as I strolled the dusty streets I met Shreoshi.  Shreoshi looked at me with her beautiful big brown eyes as I gave her a pat behind her ear.  She was a middle-aged white cow, slightly too boney with an exhausted look.  She asked me where I was from and to her surprise I answered. 

“You understand cow?” she said shocked, “No one understands me here”. 

“No one understands me here either”, I replied.

We both chuckled and ended up spending the afternoon together.  On the bare dusty ground, in the shade we found relief from the sun but never relief from the humid heat.  We talked like we were old friends.  Shreoshi may have had an exhausted outer appearance, but with the heat who doesn’t, but she talked with a calm enthusiasm and youthfulness.  I got to know that her name was actually Betty the XII, as her family moved to India from England years back.  Her Indian owner had named her Shreoshi, but to her family she was always Betty.   Betty told me of her days roaming the streets and fields, wherever she wanted to go she would slowly strut.  Sometimes she would test the boundaries, like walking in front of a bus, or wandering into shops, humorously delighted that no one cared.  She was free to do whatever she liked, although her English background of good-manners often keeps her out of too much trouble.  Her family had told her tales of the lush England pastures; free of plastic and excessive dust that she so longed to graze, but she was born Indian and this was her home.  She couldn’t complain, she knew she would never end up as beef here.  Plus, she liked the slow pace of the days where her owner would sit with her and his friends drinking chai.  She liked to laze by the village ponds cooling off her underside in the lilly filled water as she watched the women hand-wash their coloured sari’s.  The children would play and take their bath in the water as they didn’t always go to school and if they did it was never for very long.  She likes her village life where everyone lives together, joint and extended families in the one home surrounded by lanes of other extended families.  She tells me of her working day as she is happy to be contribute, her poo mixed with mud can make the village homes.   She also helps the children carry the water from the hand-pump wells.  Her favorite time of day is to watch the kids play cricket.  She tells me, “It’s good to see them playing some sport, Indians don’t like exercise”.  She is a huge cricket fan like the rest of the Nation.   When there is a game on she will lie on the cool mud-dunn verandah floor of her village and listen through the door.  Her owner excitedly yelling at the players as his wife spends hours preparing dinner, filling the house with smoke as she cooks over the challah. 

We share our stories of what we have witnessed.  Agreeing on how gorgeous and lively the children are.  Despite some children traveling miles to run away from unthinkable home conditions, or being stolen for trafficking, or given away by their own parents for child marriage, or street life; they find shelter and joy in the simplest things fighting to keep their child souls full of laughter.  We discuss the unthinkable acts of the male culture and the discrimination against women.  Of course it’s not all bad but it’s shocking what can be accepted.  To grow up as a girl child could be scarily dangerous here.  There is no quick fix but there are many smart people with kind hearts working on a change to come.  I talk to Betty of the confusion of the many contrasts I’ve encountered.   For instance the wealthy that follow the worst trends from western nations with mass consumerism and fast-food chains; ending up overweight with diabetes while the poor wear rags and struggle to afford food.   The cultural indifference between men and women are huge, although the men are still gentlemen giving women priority seating on public transport.  The idol image is Bollywood dancers who wear clothing far from the fully covered requirements of the religious general population.  There are modern malls and restaurants but then there are ancient living conditions.  It’s a culture of inefficiency and patience is required but extreme in-patience is clear when it comes to traffic.  Betty tries to help me understand some of the culture with the many gods and rituals; there is so much to take in.  As the hours pass I decide it’s time to head back to my room where it’s cool and free of chaotic street noise.  I say goodbye to Betty thankful for the afternoon and hoping that she will find more grass to fatten up a little.   

As my placement is coming to an end I’m thankful for the support and lovely people I have met.  Now it’s time for a new adventure, to be back on the road.  I’m tired of people telling me I can’t do anything on my own.  When you’re travelling alone that request is a little hard at times.  I know its not Indian custom to travel without family but I’ve come this far.  I trust in the universe that there are a lot of good people in this world.  If you truly believe than it will manifest.  Nothing so far has given me any reason to believe otherwise, and I will forever look to optimism.  As the months pass in this environment that is so foreign to anywhere I have lived, I’m happy to move on.  I’m craving nature, fresh air, trees, and sights that are beautiful on the eye.  I need to re-awaken my soul because the recent stimulus has caused a fading light.  Before I came I knew it wouldn’t be easy but it wasn’t about me.  I was here for a purpose; I have a skill that sparked a passion to want to contribute.  To be part of something bigger than me, to put in where it might be needed most.  It was by no means any tropical paradise.  My experience has been one of many challenges and insights, but the view from the top of the hill I had to climb will forever stay with me.  After all, how do we grow if we don’t push boundaries?

“Start walking towards shams.

Your legs will get heavy and tired.

Then comes a moment of feeling

The wings you’ve grown, lifting. “

-       Rumi.