TravelStream™ news feed for member darkstar on TravelPod's free travel blogs service http://www.travelpod.com/syndication/rss/darkstar en-us Copyright ©2009 TravelPod.com Sun, 22 Nov 2009 04:09:58 -0500 http://www.travelpod.com http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/darkstar/8/1258838336/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/darkstar/8/1258838336/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/darkstar/8/1258838336/tpod.html Sun, 22 Nov 2009 04:09:58 -0500 After three easy, plump and wonderful years in Australia, only India could be next

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Bangalore, Karnātaka, India

Infant Snatched

Lucknow, Nov 20: A newborn was stolen from a government hospital in Uttar Pradesh. Kamini had given birth and while she was recuperating an unknown woman took the infant on the pretext of showing it to the doctor, police said. When the woman did not return family members contacted police, who have yet to catch the perp.

Suspicious Swamis

Hubli, Nov 15: Shankarananda Adwait Swami, a renowned astrologer, died of severe injuries when the van in which he was traveling hit a rock on the road in rural Karnataka. Police said the fortune-teller died while being taken to a government hospital. No word on whether the old seer saw it coming.

Gulbarga, Nov 17: Ramababu Swami, 80, from Tamil Nadu, sat on a ceremonial fire for four hours and “prayed for the well-being of the society”, his devotees claimed. The swami, who apparently subsists on bananas and water, was in northern Karnataka when he came across the homa, or traditional fire at a temple and slept for four hours on the coals. His followers told Times of India (which ran a photo of the extreme power nap) that Ramababu had done this four or five time in Tamil Nadu. “Doctors, psychologists and rationalists are dismissive of the incident, believing it to be an illusion.”

Court Reporter

New Delhi, Nov 19: A Delhi court sentenced a man to a year in prison for "outraging the modesty" of a 67-year-old woman. Metropolitan Magistrate Twinkle (I'm not making this up) Wadhwa refused to release Wahajuddin on probation, saying the offense committed did not entitle him to such a benefit. A case was registered against Wahajuddin, in his 30s, in May 2002, on a complaint by the woman who alleged the accused, who lived in her building, had "outraged her modesty and caused injuries to her following a verbal duel." The prosecution produced nine witnesses to prove its charges against the accused pervert. One can only imagine.

Chennai, Nov 19: In a battle for justice that dragged on for 25 years, a woman raped by a police inspector has finally been granted compensation. In a long-awaited decision, the Madras High Court has ordered the Tamil Nadu government to pay 800,000 rupees ($18,000) and described the victim as a role model for women. "Though she is a villager without any resources at her command, she was not prepared to accept defeat. She was determined to enforce the rule of law," the court said. In1996 a court found Inspector Mangala Dhanaraj guilty of the 1984 rape and sentenced him to 11 years in jail. The woman sold her "ornaments" and property to meet the legal costs of pursuing compensation from the state.

New Delhi, Nov 16: Declaring that "no person lies at the time of death", a Delhi court convicted a man of murder based on the testimony of his dying wife. In April 2003 Naresh set his wife, Meena, on fire after she refused to give him 20,000 she received from her former husband in a divorce settlement. In her last words Meena accused Naresh of her murder, and instead of a conviction for dowry death, the court found Naresh guilty and sentenced him to life in prison under harsher penal provisions dealing with murder. "No one at the point of death is presumed to lie," said Judge Arun Kumar Arya. "A person will not meet his maker with a lie in his mouth."

WTF?

Srinagar, Nov 18: Five employees of a local electricity department were electrocuted and had to have limbs amputated while on duty in Kashmir Valley. The employees -- Syed, Mohammad, Abdul, Pervez and Farooq -- were electrocuted in separate incidents on the same day and were undergoing treatment in hospital. "The office bearers of electric employees union demanded compensation for the affected employees." Indeed.

Kancheepuram, Nov 17: A priest who made cell phone videos of "immoral activities" with women in the precincts of a temple surrendered to a magistrate after evading police for nearly a month. 39-year-old Devanathan of Maheswarar temple in Tamil Nadu was remanded in custody for 15 days. Police said the priest's activities came to light when he gave the phone to a service shop for repair. A Tamil magazine got hold of the story and police "registered a complaint against him under section 295-A (insulting religious beliefs) in September." Mortal Fail.





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Some stories, like this one about local organizations struggling to combat child labour and slavery, will take me longer than usual to write and publish. I've discovered that in India the stories I'm working on are much larger than the sum of their parts, and it is my ambition to be as professional and polished as possible.

So do please forgive the "Coming Soon", meant as a tease, perhaps, but also as an acknowledgement that there is much work to do, and it should be done properly. For now I hope you enjoy the pictures, and please check back again soon.
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The following wire stories involve extreme violence and murder in graphic detail. Now with that bit of journalistic pornography out of the way, enjoy!

Death By Auto

Jamnagar, Nov 19: Eleven people, including seven women, were killed when a Mumbai-bound express train slammed into an auto-rickshaw at a railway crossing in Gujarat.
The dead were passengers of the auto which had broken down on the tracks. Only the auto driver survived. Auto rickshaws are designed to carry a maximum of about five people, which makes this and the next story so incredible.

Varanasi, Nov 17: A schoolboy was killed and 15 others sustained injuries when the auto rickshaw in which they were traveling overturned in Uttar Pradesh. The injured received treatment but Shishir died in hospital. No questions reported about how the rick was so impossibly overloaded.

Ultimate Frenemies

New Delhi, Nov 19: Five youths were arrested for killing an acquaintance who stole a mobile phone from one of them. The young men confronted Vinod in his home and bludgeoned the suspected thief to death with clubs and a pipe. Police found the stolen phone and murder weapons at the scene.

New Delhi, Nov 18: An argument over five rupees in a game of cards turned to murder when two men beat a 29-year-old rickshaw driver to death. The three friends had been drinking heavily and playing cards when Aslam won a hand and refused to give back his winnings. His mates, one of whom was a known gangster, smashed his head in with stones and left his body by a public toilet.

Patiala, Nov 17: A young boy was killed by his friend for playing badly at cricket. According to police, their team lost a friendly cricket match, leading to a fight between Raman and his teammate, Sunny, who hit the other in the head with his cricket bat. Raman was rushed unconscious to a hospital where he died.

Moga, Nov 16: A man in the Punjab was "done to death" using sharp-edged weapons by his two brothers and a nephew. Police said Sohan Singh was attacked by his brothers, Karamjit and Malkiat, nephew Lovi and another man during a dispute over a piece of land. The four accused were still at large.

Random Acts of Vileness

Mathura, Nov 16: A Border Security Force soldier was killed and his brother seriously injured when they were hit in a drive-by shooting in Uttar Pradesh. Police concluded that since they had no known enemies the duo were shot by mistake. "Probably the assailants had mistook their target," said Superintendent of Rural Police, Aditya Verma.

New Delhi, Nov 16: A 25-year-old man was lynched while looking for his friend's stolen rickshaw, police said. Street vendor Kumar and his friend Dilip, whose rickshaw (what's with rickshaw?!) was stolen a few days back, asked a group of youths if they knew anything about it. In the ensuing argument the duo were beaten with iron rods, and Kumar died on the way to hospital.

Kanpur, Nov 16: A university student was shot dead by unknown assailants in Uttar Pradesh. According to police, Gyan was at a video shop when a fight started between two groups of students. The young man was shot in the melee and died in hospital. "No arrests have been made so far and investigations are on."

Dehra Dun, Nov 19: A woman whose husband had a child with his second wife killed the offending newborn in Uttarakhand. Upon hearing of the birth, Sumitra went to the village of her rival Geeta, picked up the infant and repeated threw him to the ground. Police have arrested Sumitra and her husband Pushya. No mention of why the husband got picked up as well.

New Delhi (what's with Delhi?!), Nov 17: A man was arrested for murdering a teenage boy who refused his sexual advances. Nitin and his associate Poras, who were under the influence of alcohol, tried to have sex with the teenager and when the boy refused they stabbed him to death. "After the murder, they cut the private parts of the dead body and threw it away," Inspector Katiyar said. Under interogation Nitin told police where they had hidden the murder weapon, blood stained clothes and private parts of teenager's body, "which was later recovered."

Varanasi, Nov 17: A college principal was arrested for severely beating a boy who later died in hospital. The boy's death sparked violent local protests and prompted staff at the college to close the institution and flee. Principal Sunil was caught at a railway station trying to evade arrest and mob justice.

WTF?

Dehra Dun, Nov 19: A 77-year-old man who had gone to a hospital to recover the body of his grandson died when a tree fell on him. Sukkar had called for a postmortem on his grandson Pinku, who had died in mysterious circumstances the day before. While he was waiting to collect the body, Sukkar was felled by an old tree and killed instantly.





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Despite the title of this story I have decided not to publish the text online at this time but will make it available by email request to davidjwightman@yahoo.ca. I understand that this may be frustrating for the reader but I do so out of my own best interests.



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A collection of weird, wild and wanton news from all over India, some of which, frankly, is disturbing. Be so warned…

Luck of the Draw

Mumbai, Oct 4: In a scene straight from a Bollywood film, Krishna Shetty, owner of a video parlour, escaped death when a five rupee coin in his pocket deflected a bullet shot at him. Shetty and his cousin were sitting in the video shop when they were struck in a drive-by shooting. Recuperating in hospital, Shetty proudly displayed the mangled coin that took the full impact of the bullet which otherwise would have pierced his chest.

The Curious Case of Benjamin Bollywood

New Delhi, Nov 9: Bollywood is following in Brad Pitt’s footsteps, exploring rare diseases as film plots. In his latest release, Paa, superstar Amitabh Bachchan plays a child affected with Progeria, the rare genetic disorder that ages the sufferer three times faster than normal. NGOs and social workers applauded the movie, saying it will increase awareness and sensitivity about such diseases.

Crazy Animal News

Coimbatore, Nov 9: A bull went berserk in Tamil Nadu, attacking pedestrians and two-wheelers and injuring at least 50 people, including women and children. The bull began its wild run just after ten in the morning, knocking down almost everyone in its path, and forcing local police to use loudspeakers to warn people to get out of the way. Some brave idiots tried to coral the bull by tying a noose around its neck. This failed. The raging bull was finally caught, ending the hour-long drama.

Dehra Dun, Nov 9: A man-eating leopardess that killed two women was shot dead by the Uttarakhand state forest department. Preliminary examination of the body of the 8-year-old, seven-feet long animal revealed that her canine teeth and nails were broken. It was concluded that faced with such debilities she turned to easier, human prey. The leopardess had killed two old women and injured several others prompting the forest authorities to declare her a man-eater and issue orders to kill.

Kanpur, Oct 5: Three people were killed while attempting to rescue a buffalo that fell into a well in Uttar Pradesh. The villagers were digging to expand the well to free the animal when they themselves fell in. No word on the state of the buffalo.

Canning, Oct 1: A 30-year-old man was killed by a tiger while fishing in a creek in West Bengal. Ahmed Sheikh, who was licensed to fish and access the forest, was taken by surprise when the tiger attacked and dragged him into the jungle. His companions chased the cat and recovered the body. This year there has been a spike in the incidence of tiger attacks.

Nashik, Oct 17: A three-year-old was killed by a leopard in North Maharashtra. The wild cat dragged Pratik Binnar into the jungle when his farm labourer parents were loading tomatoes in a tractor. The child's body was recovered by villagers the next day.

There’s No Good, Only Bad and Ugly

Varanasi, Nov 8: A 25-year-old woman sustained serious burns after her husband set her on fire at a village in West Bengal. Police said the couple married in 1998 and have three children. Husband Rakesh was an unemployed alcoholic, and when his wife refused to give him money for liquor Rakesh poured kerosene on Sona and set her on fire. Neighbours rushed to her rescue and extinguished the fire but the woman sustained serious burns. “The police is (sic) searching for the absconding husband.”

Sonepat, Nov 7: A 13-year-old girl was seriously burned when a fellow student threw acid at her. The victim, a Class VII student, was returning home from school when Sajjan, 14, threw acid at her. The girl was rushed to a local community health centre where she is in stable condition with severe burn injuries. “Police have registered a case against the youth who had fled the scene after the incident.”

Mahbubnagar: A 2-day-old baby survived being buried alive after a stray dog dug the child up and attracted the attention of passers-by. The newborn was buried by her grandparents who expected a boy from their 18-year-old granddaughter. A tractor driver pulled the infant from the would-be grave and brought her to hospital.

Aurangabad, Oct 25: Three people were crushed to death when an auto rickshaw in which they were transporting a dead body was hit by a bus. The body of 4-year-old Sunil Sanjay was being transported by his family members when the bus struck them in broad daylight. The rickshaw was dragged 50 feet and police said it was difficult to collect the pieces. “Police have registered a case and the investigations are on.”

WTF?

Varanasi, October 22: A provincial Armed Constabulary soldier was arrested after he shot a civilian in a dispute over who should go first at an ATM. Soldier Sriniwas and civilian Ramashanker were at the ATM when the argument started. The soldier drew first, shooting Ramashanker with his service rifle. The victim was in serious but stable condition. “Police are investigating the matter.”

Madurai, Nov 7: A heated exchange over the taste of a curry led to a woman committing suicide by setting herself ablaze, and her husband dying trying to save her. Police said the man had complained about the taste of sambar while taking dinner at the couple’s home. Apparently enraged over her husband's comments, the woman doused herself with kerosene and set herself ablaze. Her husband, who allegedly tried to save her, suffered serious burns, as did their two children who were also caught in the melee. The 37-year-old husband died in the night, while his wife succumbed the next morning.

Mumbai, Sept 25: 26-year-old taxi driver, Mahesh Kamat, stands accused of having sex with a dog. He was arrested in late August and booked for having “unnatural sex” as well as for animal cruelty. However, the cunning cabbie pleaded that the cruelty charge was not applicable as the dog was a stray and not a pet. The court proceeded with the charges saying that "the offense had disturbed residents of the area". Quite.

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Bangalore, Karnātaka, India

I came to India with six cameras packed into a tan leather bag custom-made for a Leica camera and gear. This was my most self-indulgent luggage and is proving to be totally redundant. Five of the cameras are analogue, including two medium-format relics and a Russian Horizon panoramic, and though I like my toys I get by just fine with a single digital camera that I take with me everywhere.

I came to India with such equipment in order to capture what I imagined would be a world of breathless images. I wanted to take good pictures and many of them. And I take many, many pictures, almost 2000 in just 11 weeks in India. I’m not shy to poke my lens at people. I ask permission of course, and often get it with enthusiasm. Kids wrestle each other to be center frame, while dignified old men repose, and women in bright saris or and young men pose for the camera.

Young women blush at the lens and rarely let me snap, and I don’t even try to take pictures of Muslim women, burqas or not. But I take other portraits and pictures, and some of my work I find extremely satisfying. There are some portraits and lucky candid pictures that tell a story well, and fuel my desire for the next amazing shot.

I learned from my mother, a passionate photographer who started with an old box Brownie when she was 12 years old. I am perhaps more flighty than she, less professional, and my style can be more aggressive with composition and colour, but I owe my proficiency with the camera to my mother.

She encouraged me to take better photos and that’s what I’ve tried to do. I should use my other cameras, not just for the chic retro effect but also because people are curious about them, especially the Lubitel medium format relic. Real photography is what I aspire to; analogue or digital, I just want to take good pictures.

As with my writing I’d like to publish my photographs some day, and entertain daydreams about hosting an exhibition down the road. I’ll have a body of good work, and many stories and brilliant memories from my photography.

There’s Ashok Jain, who runs a bric-a-brac shop with his father in Shivajinagar. He and I struck up an acquaintance, and one day his 5-year-old daughter was at the shop, looking adorable in a pink dress and scribbling in a ledger she had upside down. I took a good portrait of her, and another that was decent, and printed them for Ashok, who also has a 2-year-old boy.

I photographed the two kids together a few weeks later, when Ashok’s wife brought them to the shop, and dad got them in line and held a mat behind them to act as a backdrop. I chuckled as the little boy started to fuss and managed only one good shot before he burst into tears. It was not a common reaction but one I can understand, the kid being upset by a tall strange man with a goatee speaking an alien language and pointing a camera at him.

Some people refuse to be photographed, and I’ve had to walk away from more than one good shot because the subject said no. And some beggars universally, want money. But by and large people are happy to be snapped, and I am not shy to take advantage. I’ll take 6 or 7 or even 10 pictures to get the right one, and some people I have photographed several times. I’ve built relationships through my photography. There are people and places that I return to.

One temple in Shivajinagar is home to a half-dozen families, and boasts the most incredible banyan, a sacred tree in India, the trunk of which is devouring ancient lingams, or stone carvings of gods and spirits. Against this wondrous backdrop I’ve taken pictures of almost everyone who lives there, in tiny houses built around the central temple, all of which is about the size of a tennis court.

I like visiting that temple, and others, particularly when I have prints to give out. During Diwali I got a batch of 75 pictures printed and wandered around handing them out to the people in them. Reactions ranged from bemused to delighted, and curios passersby were highly entertained as well. In Shivajinagar shopkeepers and traders were happy with the unexpected gifts, and some implored that I hadn’t taken their pictures.

I gave one picture priority over others though, of a fourth-generation snuff merchant, Sathyanarayana, would had given me a treasure of a puja shrine some weeks before. I found a metal frame for the print at Ashok’s shop, and presented the photo to a very appreciative Sathy when I found him at his 122-year-old shop. He showed me a photo of him taken at the shop in the early 80s and I was thrilled to have contributed an updated photo of the rather good-looking and quietly dignified man.

Other people I shoot, especially in Shivajinagar, have never had their picture taken. It’s for those people that I chose to print and present my pictures to the people in them. The first batch I had done at a Kodak shop in MG Road, paying 6 rupees a print. This was too much but better than the posted price of 8 rupees per print. I was excited and impatient to see people reactions, though, and figured it would be particularly auspicious karma during Diwali.

For the second and third print runs I found a cheaper place in Shivajinagar, where for 4.5 rupees I get my prints next day. I’ve printed almost 200 photos, though as I write this I’ve got more to print and have dozens more to deliver. I carry them with me in my shoulder bag wherever I go.

On a recent trip to City Market I had a banner day of work in a new environment that was fresh and exciting, and after hours wandering around I got my last lucky shot, a busy chaiwallah on a delivery as the brilliant late afternoon sunlight streams into the inner market.

I look forward to taking my camera outside to Bangalore, to Delhi, where in December I’ll attend a wedding and explore the city with my best mate and Delhi boy Ilango before heading up to Kashmir for Christmas. At least two of my film cameras are coming with, and I’m thinking about doing an ayudha puja, or blessing of implements, with my camera gear before I go.

Taking pictures has enriched my life here. I will have an extraordinary collection of images that I took in a time in my life that will be unlike any other. When I look though my iPhoto gallery of India, I am reminded of how lucky I am to be here. And with my camera beside me I’m ready for the next lucky shot.


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Back by no demand at all, here's another collection of weird and wacky wire stories...

Not Exactly Marital Bliss

Mumbai, Nov 8: The Bombay High Court has ordered local police to protect a Pune couple from their infuriated in-laws. Sabeena, a Kashmiri Muslim woman, married Ravi, a Hindu from Bihar, against the wishes of the woman’s family, who have threatened the couple with physical harm. “This is a free and democratic country and once a person become an adult he or she can marry whomever he or she likes,” the SC ruled.

Bahadurgarh, Nov 11: A teenaged girl poisoned her family before eloping with her lover in northern Haryana state. Police say Seema’s mother and three brothers, who disapproved of the relationship, fell unconscious after being served tea laced with a poisonous substance. The couple was arrested next day and the “condition of all the victims was stated to be out of danger.” Except, perhaps, for the young lovers.

Bangalore, Nov 10: Manjunath was all set to walk away with his new bride but instead left in handcuffs when police arrested him on a four-year-old burglary charge. The 28-year-old Karnataka native fled Bangalore in 2005 and had been in hiding since, surfacing recently to get married. An associate of the man tipped off police, who arrived at the temple moments before the ceremony. The cops offered to wait but when informed of her lover’s past the bride refused to get married. So conjugal visits are off then?

Newborn News

Tiruvarur, Nov 6: Fearing ridicule from his neighbours, 45-year-old farmer, Nagoor, dumped his newborn son beside a canal in Tamil Nadu. Police say the man feared ridicule from fellow villagers for having a child at his age when his 19-year-old daughter was already married and a mother. The man convinced his wife, Rani, 37, that the baby was still born, though staff at a local hospital got suspicious when the woman was brought in, and Nagoor confessed when the police got involved. Officers were surprised to find the baby alive, lying in a pool of mud after a night in the open.

Bangalore, Nov 6: A nanny working for a young couple rented out their baby to beggars, say police. While the couple was at work the nanny fed the child sedatives and rented him to beggars for 100 rupees a day. Police say the nanny then spent the day watching soap operas and gorging on snacks. The gig was up when the child’s mother returned home early to find the nanny on the couch and the baby gone. The parents are said to be so upset by the crime that they are planning to speed up their move abroad.

Bihar, Oct 8: A woman jumped off a speeding train after her newborn, delivered in the toilet, slipped out the drain hole and out onto the track below. Rinku boarded the train with her husband to visit family and went into labour soon after. The young woman gave birth in the loo, and her baby slipped into the drain of the Indian-style squat toilet. Passengers pulled the emergency chain to stop the train when they saw Rinku jump after her child. Husband Bhola was overjoyed to find mother and child unhurt after their ordeal. The Times of India ran a photo of the pretty young woman and her sleeping babe, and it’s only on second glance that you notice the blood stained hospital wall behind them. Yike.

Bad Babu, No Dosa

Puducherry, Nov 5: Tamil Nadu Chief Minister, V Vaithilingam, and his five-man cabinet spent more than 3,600,000 rupees ($82,000) on tea, snacks and beverages in the eight months between September 2008 and March 2009, according to the NGO Rajiv Gandhi Human Rights Aweness Organization. Figures obtained through a Right To Information query showed that in one day the CM’s office spent 106,000 rupees ordering take away from a local hotel. Most Indians survive on less than 100 rupees a day. Vaithilingam defended himself by saying he cut back on other expenses, like assistants and secretaries: “I travel alone during official trips and carry my suitcase and luggage myself.” Fail.

Mumbai, Oct 11: Of the 3500 candidates contesting the Maharashtra Assembly election nearly 600, or one in six, have criminal cases pending against them. A National Election Watch report showed 588 candidates are before criminal courts in their ridings across the state. The report also said that 461 candidates had declared assets in crores, or tens of millions of rupees, or more. One out of six Maharastran politicians are rich criminals. Bless.

WTF?

Srinigar, Nov 3: A bear mauled two Hizbul Mujahideen terrorists to death as they hid in its cave in the volatile state of Kashmir. An army patrol found the bodies inside the cave next day and identified the dead as HM commanders. Subsequent medical examinations identified their grizzly fate.


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Bangalore, Karnātaka, India

A wizened old palm reader sits cross-legged on the sidewalk waiting to divine futures while a chaiwallah hurtles by on his rounds. Down the street, auto rickshaws and buses careen to and from the local bus terminal. People everywhere are buying and selling. A sidewalk tattoo artist inks a cobra onto a young man’s arm with a gun that looks to me like a torture device, and a fine way to spread hepatitis. Children are laughing and playing and some of them are working. There are beggars with twisted limbs at the gates of St. Mary’s Basilica, c. 1882, and the oldest church in Bangalore. Across the street is Russell Market, built in the last century for the city’s English population. There are mosques and temples and churches, and dignified Muslim men in conservative dress walk with women in black burkas past Hindu women in brightly coloured saris.

This is Shivajinagar, one of the largest marketplace in Bangalore; so large that it constitutes a political riding. It’s home to almost 50,000 people, and is to my eyes at once chaos and brilliance. It is a treat for my photographic eye. It’s a practical resource, from tailors to chai stands, and it’s on my way home when I walk from downtown. I love Shivajinagar. Come with me. I like taking friends along.

There’s a gray haired Christian man making coffins from rough-hewn planks of wood, fashioning a cross with bright yellow gold piping. In another part of the sprawling neighbourhood a bamboo seller sips chai in front of his shop, walls of green poles towering a dozen metres over the road. The bamboo stacked high makes an organic corridor cool and quiet in contrast to the dust and noise of the street.

On the other side of Shivajinagar a man sits cross-legged in a shop decorated with old posters, boxes, ancient pictures of the gods, and antique ceramic jars of snuff. The shop is 120 years old, and the owner, Sathyanarayana, a dignified man with a mustache who doesn’t smile when I take his picture, is a fourth generation snuff merchant. A picture of his late father hangs behind him.

When I ask about one of Sathy's puja shrines, a small metal and glass frame encasing five Hindu gods in gold he tells me to keep it. I cradle the object, to me a treasure, and gape. I’m overwhelmed and promise to return with a print of my picture of him and the shop, and bid my thanks.

A few weeks later I meet Sathy again, inside a 300-year-old Hindu temple. I had seen the temple before and returned next day with a Canadian friend, Lara, hoping to do a puja blessing. The place was busy with families, plates of food and merrymaking. We’d arrived in the middle of a birthday party, and after touching the feet of the 60-year-old celebrant and receiving flower garlands and her blessing -- a shower of yellow-grained rice -- and doing puja we were handed plates of food and cups of water.

I find more devotions to the gods on a busy street near the bus terminal. The shop was overflowing with wall shrines, some ornate in plastic and velour and colourful lights, others in brightly painted and embossed paper. I spotted some moldering frames on the floor and the shopkeeper clucked when I offered to buy them. One is of Laksmi, goddess of wealth, wisdom and fertility, while the other is a triptych of idols, portraits and landmarks. The frame was old and the picture fragile, and a bug wriggled underneath the glass. I offered her 20 rupees for the lot and she clucked again.

Everywhere people smile and ask where I’m from, and what, please, is my “good name”. A butcher smiles when I say Canada. He’s just killed a chicken, up to his elbows in gore and feathers as he plunges the carcass into boiling water before stripping the skin and expertly butchering the bird.

Every street in Shivajinagar is a warren of economic activity. There’s cloth and spices and furniture, gold, baskets, shoes, and a lot of food. As the butcher reaches for another bird I walk on through the poultry and butcher shops and notice a large flock of scavenger Black Kites circling a dull cinderblock building. Kites rest on the courtyard walls and inside I can just make out the charnel house of an abattoir. The apartment block across the street, Slaughterhouse Road, is tall and brightly painted, and mothers in colourful saris gossip on the terrace while kids play in the street.

Allyson is glad to get away from the gore. My coworker joins me on a Sunday wander and is enjoying it, even the butchers. “I would never have come here if I didn’t come with you,” she says in her Quebecois accent, and I take the compliment. Allyson is popular in Shivajinagar, and before long she has a garland of jasmine flowers around her neck, a rose in her hair and one in her hand, and the attention of young boys who follow us a few steps.

Everywhere there are children, and my photography of Shivajinagar is peopled with youth. Children are more comfortable with the camera, as are old men. But kids smile and giggle and perform and wrestle each other to be in the frame. Many of them are cute and some beautiful, in brightly coloured saris or school clothes or ragged castoffs. These are the children in the back streets, near the comfort and security of their houses and families. There are others in the main streets who are child labourers and even bonded slaves, selling watches, house wares, carting goods or making flower garlands.

Inside the gloomy but enticing Russell Market, flower weavers sew garlands of fragrant white jasmine, blood red roses and yellow chrysanthemums. One young man asks after my name and country. He has dark hair slung rakishly over his forehead and eyes, and he smiles as he picks through a pile of roses before handing one to me. I clasp my hands together in thanks and press the flower to me nose as I walk through the streets.

As I explore further I wander the back streets and narrow alleys of Shivajinagar where people live and where some work. In a tiny soot-blackened room Ahmed shuffles pans of chai biscuits in and out of a tiny oven door while two men kneed a bench groaning with dough, and two boys pack the crispy rectangles of goodness, 7000 of them baked everyday from 5 am to 2 pm. Ahmed is not just a baker, he tells me as I squat in the doorway munching a warm biscuit. He’s a photographer, knows the darkroom and gets work from a local Urdu language newspaper. I stay for another cookie.

And the more I know Shavajinagar the more I linger, for chai and a chat with shopkeepers. I meet Ilyas on a sunny Friday afternoon, after he’s been to his prayers at a nearby mosque. His stall is stocked with plastic cups, bags, sacks and party supplies, and he invites me to a cup of chai for which he dispatches his younger brother. He's dressed in a white khurta and skullcap, and has a dyed beard that glows red in the sun, and we talk about Canada and my impressions of India. I stay for some time, feeling like I’m sitting with a favoured uncle, and help shift parcels to a customer on a vintage green scooter. I will print my photos of Ilyas and his shop and make a present of them. I will print many of my pictures for the people in them, like a thank you card.

For I spend much time in Shivajinagar. I am a neighbour after all. From my office downtown in Residency Road it’s a more or less straight walk north to Benson Town through Shivajinagar. If I leg it I can do the three or four kilometres distance in half an hour, though often it’s 45 minutes, and sometimes much more. Everything one could want or need is there; charcoal for the barbeque, delicious and fast veg and non-veg food, fruits, vegetables and fresh butchered meat, a young barber to cut my hair, tailors to fashion shorts from an extra pair of pants, and temples and pujas for friends new to Shaivajinagar.

The neighbourhood is by no means perfect or simple, and I do not wish to romanticize it. Shivajinagar is filthy, overcrowded and rife with hardships and violence I don’t see. But what I see is humanity, a chance for a great photo, a chai with a stranger. I do see the child labourers, and it is upsetting. There are millions in India, almost 900,000 of them in Karantaka state alone. It’s said that 100 children arrive in Bangalore every day. Further afield in Johnson Market, and perhaps in Shivajinagar as well, it’s possible to buy a child for as little as 500 rupees.

Most kids who work in Shivajinagar are scrubbed up though and harder to see as labourers as they flog ladies sandals or spices. But they can also be up to their elbows in grease and grim as they work on a motorcycle engine. There are organizations doing work with street kids and labourers, and I have in my queue of writings a story about child labour. There are issues of caste as well. One day while I was photographing a bamboo worker a young man introduced himself and invited me into a nearby temple.

Shivakumar is a social worker for the city, responsible for “Dalit (untouchables), Backward & Minorities”, as it says on his business card, and I struggled to imagine that such a job exists. But he was quite familiar with the temple and the people who lived there. I am seeing that temples are not just places of worship but living spaces as well. Behind the puja temple were a dozen or more impossibly small houses, and children and parents and elders and even livestock. These were the poor and disadvantaged people who were brought in tot do the worst jobs, like dredging the city's storm drains and sewers and demolishing old builings with picks and shovels. I was warmly welcomed, took dozens of pictures and felt extremely pleased to be there.

I will call on Shivakumar again, and see more of his work. But the city’s caste problems are not the only unsavory aspects of the neighbourhood. While I do feel safe there I’m not sure I’d want to be in some areas of Shivajinagar at night. Closer to Commercial Street and the city’s downtown are pubs and bars where young men have a few and can cause trouble in the streets if the timing is bad. Some parts of the market are well lit and busy but others are a no-go after dark.

Some business deals aren’t so charming either. In September a trio of young Muslim men were arrested for possessing 5 handguns and ammunition. The guns were smuggled from the North and these guys were trying to turn a dollar by passing them off as imported. The media pronounced that this was a terrorist cell, and the police made a show of the forlorn felons and their merchandise in pictures carried on front pages of all the dailies.

But other than deals gone bad and keeping safe at night I feel completely at ease in Shivajinagar. The more I see of it the more I realize that Shivajinagar is not just my muse in Bangalore, it’s actually one of my favourite places in years of traveling. My friend Rani laughs when I tell her this, but then again she laughs at everything. Rani is from Kerala, with curly black hair and a constant smile. She’s one of the boys, teased and loved, and she and I had become fast friends.

At least she’d joined one of my Sunday wanders through Shivajinagar. She was game and followed as I picked our way through the streets at Eid, the end of Ramadan and one of the peak days of the Muslim religious calendar. Shivajinagar was awash with people, at times we stood still in a barely-moving crowd, or ducked through streets chocked with autos, lorries and bikes, Rani blithely keeping up and giggling at my recklessness in traffic. I’d call it skill and confidence but that’s just ego.

But once around Shivajinagar was enough for Rani. Like most Indians, she sees the neighbourhood for what it is, a heaving, dirty, raucous place. She tells me that her friends think I’m crazy to love the place. Perhaps, but they don’t see it through my eyes. I tell Rani that besides all the things I love about Shivajinagar -- the fascinating shops and people, the curious and gorgeous children, the unexpected sights and short moments of what to me is the beauty of life -- I love most that it’s what I came here to experience. I’ll see Goa and Varansi and Delhi and maybe even the Taj Mahal, but I will always return to Shivajinagar.

And at the end of a day at work, when I feel frustrated or abused or alone, I will walk home, up St. Mark’s road, over Infantry road, and into Shivajinagar. And when I get to the other side and Benson Town and to my apartment, I will have left everything behind me. I’ll need a shower to rid the dust and sweat, but otherwise Shivajinagar will wash me clean. When I tell Rani this she breaks into peals of laughter. “You are the luckiest person then,” she giggles. And she’s right.



]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/darkstar/8/1257764069/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/darkstar/8/1257764069/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/darkstar/8/1257764069/tpod.html Thu, 12 Nov 2009 14:59:51 -0500 After three easy, plump and wonderful years in Australia, only India could be next

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Ooty, Tamil Nādu, India

I wasn’t well prepared for my assignment to Ooty. My editor had given me no instruction, as usual, other than the customary instruction to read the magazine. But Dilip was surprisingly unhelpful and wouldn’t even tell me how many words he wanted, much less how he wanted me to write them. I’m a journalist, yes, but I need an editor, not just to clean up my work but also to inform and shape it.

Without guidance I was lucky to find my hosts well prepared for me. Mark had scheduled a number of meetings with staff, students, former Principals and parents who had arrived to attend the festival and pick up their children for a two-week break.

The sky over Ooty was bright blue and scattered with puffs of clouds and the warm morning sun streamed through skylights in the roof of the student dormitories. All male students and girls aged 9 to 12 boarded at Hebron, while older girls stayed in a hostel off campus, and all boarders were cared for by dorm parents, faculty and sometimes former boarders themselves, who lived full-time with the students and their own families.

The dorms were comfortable and relatively neat, and the kids seemed safe and happy and loved. There were computer labs linked to the Internet, chemistry and biology labs and a library overflowing with books and resources and student projects and artwork. There was a guidance counselor, a stern European woman, to help students with their university applications and academic workload. There was also a department of personal development to help students with learning difficulties and those who needed ESL support.

In recent years Hebron has taken on more students from Asia, including those from countries like South Korea and Thailand who need help to cope with the English instruction. “We could fill the school just with kids from Korea and India,” Lynn Noonan commented as she showed us around the school. “People are actually moving to Ooty and running their businesses from here to get their kids into the school.”

Not that such a move would help. Hebron accepts one in every three applications, and priority is given to expatriates and Non Resident Indians doing humanitarian or missionary work in remote areas of India and Southeast Asia. Hebron is also part of the larger Nilgris region, a hub of 35 boarding and international schools. The others are more conventional institutes run, I was reliably told, with military precision and old-fashioned discipline.

“Our students are focused on people,” explains VP Academic, Nigel Hinton. “Unlike my previous school in London, where the students were focused on money and success, Hebron kids are more concerned about people and relationships.” Those London alumni might not feel so attached to their alma mater either. Hebron, it seems, draws people back.

Several I met spoke of life-long ties to Hebron, and half of this year’s staff is alumni. John Barclay, who sent the drama festival invitation to EducationWorld, was a former student, parent, teacher, and finally, principal. “This school does have a magnetic effect that pulls people back,” he mused. “Hebron is unique in its family around the world. We are really brothers and sister. We’re family.” One international guest, a young Welshman named David, was even born there (“On the other side of the hill,” he smiled) when his parents were teaching at Hebron.

I met groups of parents and staff and students in the Alumni room of Lushington Hall, a meeting and lounge space devoted to memorabilia, trophy cases and bookshelves of school yearbooks and texts. The parents were particularly eager to sing the school’s praises (“We wouldn’t send our kids anywhere else, frankly” and “I wish I could have come here”) but the highlight was our session with the students.

Principal Noonan had scheduled an hour or so with each of the groups, and joined many, including the kids, who were seniors and members of the student council. We began by talking about some of the charity work the students undertake. Hebron supports at least three local charities, including Smyrna Home for the disabled and Freedom Firm, an anti-prostitution organization.

But then Mark left the room and I asked for the goss: What was it really like to live here, what were the rules around dating and technology restrictions, and what were they thinking as they prepared to graduate? When Mark returned I announced that no one over 40 was allowed, which my host took with good humour, requesting only that I tell him everything that was said. Left to talk freely the 13 students relaxed and seemed to enjoy themselves.

They were a tight group, bright, inquisitive people. They talked about the challenges of living in Ooty, of the “Hebron bubble”, and their attempts to express their growing independence. We all laughed when one explained the school’s dating policy. The older students are allowed to date, but only with the expressed written permission of both parents and under the supervision of the teachers and dorm parents. “We’re allowed to hold hands in public, and no kissing,” he said as the room rippled with laughter. “But they’re just trying to keep all cultures happy.”

The students also took issue with the fact that they were not allowed laptops or iPods, and that data storage devices had to be checked and approved by the computer teacher. There was also a list of banned music and movies, everything from Britney Spears to 50-Cent. “Every year we raise these issues,” said one student, the editor of the school newspaper, Zenith. “Every year we get somewhere but not as far as we’d like.”

I asked them about their imminent graduation. “We’re shit scared,” admitted one young man. “In a way being here has helped us but it’s also not helped.” These kids were different, isolated, and acutely aware of themselves and the world outside the bubble. And they were conscientious, the young man who swore adding, “You know this place affects you when you think twice about swearing.”

Many of them had applied for university overseas and the group was curious about campus life. “Older students tell us about the culture of drinking and say you get used to it,” offered one of the young women. Allyson and I spoke about our own experiences at university and the group took it all in. It was a treat to tell them about my experiences, which were varied to say the least. These were heady kids curious about things of which they had only vague notions. I told them to stick to their guts, have fun and be careful, especially with sex. Thanks Uncle Dave.

But what began as a mass interview became an intimate conversation with interesting people on the brink of independence, and I could have talked with them for hours. Our time was up, and I enjoyed shaking hands and exchanging best wishes and words, and noting the kids stacking their chairs and generally tidying up after themselves in an effort that was without thought.

My head was swimming with quotes and figures and narratives while I turned page after page of scrawled notes in pencil. I was saved from information overload by Joseph and Jarebb; visiting alumni who arrived in Joseph’s sporty black Suzuki to take Allyson and I on a tour of Ooty.

Joined by Carolin, a German IG at Hebron, we explored the central market and St. Stephen’s, the oldest church in Ooty. Joseph was a barrel of a guy, with a swaggering walk and a look to match. He had a sharp soccer jersey and bright new sneakers and stylish wrap-around sunglasses, and owned an art gallery in Cochin.

His friend and former classmate was equally stylish and successful, with a quiet smile under a freshly shaved head. He was a Production Assitant in Mumbai working on Bollywood films. He smiled when I showed my appreciation. My late uncle was in the film business, and I know that to be a PA at his age Jarebb must be both very good and extremely lucky.

We wandered the market’s dense warren of small stalls and alleyways, butchers, spice sellers, and vendors selling everything from fruit to photos of the gods. I found charcoal burners at a metal tool shop, and haggled for one of stockpot size. In Zambia these are called mbaulas and on a chilly night they are a treat. I paid 150 rupees for the burner, a quarter of what they go for in Bangalore, and I like it too much to actually use it.

But in Ooty the church stole the tour. We arrived at St. Stephen’s just as the guardian was locking the gates, but Joseph pleaded with the man in Tamil and he let us in using the biggest skeleton key I’ve ever seen. It was like a movie prop key to the city, made of gray metal rubbed smooth and luminous, which he refused to let us photograph.

We could take pictures inside the church though, and Joseph aimed his impressive Canon digital SLR around the room, while the rest of us wandered respectfully down the aisles and antechambers. It was cool and distinctly old, decorated with intricate stained-glass windows, stunning stone masonry and bronze and marble plaques commemorating the British officers and missionaries who died in and around Ooty during the Raj.

There was a large and overgrown colonial cemetery on the slope behind the church, and we wandered among the tombstones and towering eucalypt trees. The guardian waited patiently and Joseph thanked him with a few 10 rupee notes as we prepared to leave. Next was a spot of shopping at a handicraft shop run for the Toda people, a hill tribe that inhabits the Nilgris and remained largely secluded until the British arrived.

Our tour of Ooty was running short on time, however, and we had dinner and a play to attend. Back at Hebron there was a party atmosphere as dozens of parents and children ate and talked and played in the lead up to the night’s performance. Dinner was delicious mutton and potato curry, rice and rotis, and with a full belly and a smart Toda scarf (a length of woven cotton embroidered with patterns and fringes of red and black) wrapped around my neck I was well prepared for Dicken’s Oliver Twist.

The stage was larger than the night before, on three wooden interconnected platforms, set with furniture and black curtains. The cast was large and the performance strong, with all the gravitas of a graduating class putting themselves out there with passion and force. Every aspect of the drama festival was run by the students themselves, and though they were overseen by a variety of drama and music teachers the kids themselves staged the show. Allyson and I had arrived for the last two nights of a six-day event, and the finale was suitably grand and ambitious.

The story of a street urchin and his slavery and salvation has been done many times since it was written in 1838. The Hebron performance was passionate and raw. Actors pored themselves into their lines, and puffs of baby powder⎯used to add gray to otherwise youthful hair⎯exploded as characters stormed about in fits of rage or fright on stage.

It was a good show, and I enjoyed seeing onstage the students I’d met earlier in the day. Our time had been sweet but also short, and we were bundled off to catch our bus just a half hour after the performance end. Ooty is in fact an amazing place, and seeing Hebron was a huge privilege. I promised to return, with Amanda, who as a teacher will be interested in the school, and as a traveler will love the journey. I will be back, and better dressed.

]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/darkstar/8/1257923622/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/darkstar/8/1257923622/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/darkstar/8/1257923622/tpod.html Thu, 12 Nov 2009 14:12:39 -0500 After three easy, plump and wonderful years in Australia, only India could be next

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Ooty, Tamil Nādu, India

Who are you?

It’s a good question to ask yourself, and probably not something you think of every day. Do you know who you are? What makes you tick? Do you know why you make the decisions you do, and why your life flows in the direction it does? And are you happy in your skin?

Heady stuff for a Thursday afternoon chat over tea in the hills of Tamil Nadu. I was sitting in a cozy dorm parents living room with three principals of Hebron school, Rod Gilbert (1987-95), John Barclay (1999-2002) and the current head, Mark Noonan, along with the former principals’ wives. We’d been speaking about the school for some time, about the challenges (“There should be more language instruction”) and joys of Hebron (“Our emphasis is on life rather than rigidity and structure”).

Rod’s wife Ruthie used an acronym, “TCK”, that I’d never heard and asked her to explain. “Third Culture Kid,” she smiled, explaining that the term referred to children who spent formative time outside their own countries, and merge aspects of their adopted and native cultures to form a third.

The term was coined in the 1960s by sociologist Ruth Hill Useem, after she lived for a time with her own three children in India and studied the affect on them and others. TCKs are children of missionaries, diplomats, army personnel and businesspeople, and any family who lives the expatriate life. Considerable study has gone into the social phenomenon. There's even an e-magazine, Denizen, written by and for TCKs (http://www.denizen-mag.com).

Sociologist David Pollock describes a TCK, or global nomad, as "a person who has spent a significant part of his or her developmental years outside the parents' culture. The TCK builds relationships to all of the cultures, while not having full ownership of any. Although elements from each culture are assimilated into the TCK's life experience, the sense of belonging is in relationship to others of a similar background."

I am a TCK. My mother was living and working in Zambia when she met my father, and I was raised there until the age of seven when we moved permanently to Canada. The realization came with a chuckle, and my hosts nodding their heads as I described my own experience. “And your choice to live outside your native country is classic TCK behaviour,” said John approvingly. I didn’t know that I fit any particular sociological profile but felt rather comfortable and connected with my newfound status.

Like many TCKs I come from a successful, educated family, and obtained a bachelor degree, though after much trial and several years, another common TCK trait. I’ve chosen work and travel in a pattern that fits most of my third culture peers, and have often felt more comfortable among cultures other than my own.

Like most I faced an identity crisis, and took years to adjust to Canada. It took me even longer to properly identify with my nationality. Now as an ATCK (Adult Third Culture Kid) I’ve come to not only embrace my identity but also revel in it. Not every global nomad comes to terms with the conflict of who they are.

At least they are not alone, especially in Ooty. “Hebron has a unique cultural atmosphere that even the Indian students become like third culture kids,” John explained. “We have a good awareness of what it means to be a TCK, and prepare them for a different world, not ‘the real world’”. Ideally this year’s graduating class will carry their distinctions into adult life, into the ‘different’ world, finding others like them and feeling empowered by who they are.

They will soon leave the bubble, full of ambition, anxiety, and as well prepared as possible. “Like everything Hebron has its troubles,” Ruthie offered. “But something that the school gives people is with them for life.”

After less than two days Hebron gave me something that will stick. I have a strong sense of myself, and what I’m doing with my life. I am acutely ambitious about it, and long ago vowed that if I can’t go to heaven or live forever then I can only live an extraordinary life. And it’s nice to know that there is a phenomenon out there that reflects who I am. It’s good to be part of the group.


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