‘Welcome back,’ said the gentleman in the turban as I was ushered into Singh’s Hotel, and it was like coming home. What a difference five weeks makes. I had thought that this hotel was in a back street; I viewed ‘going outside’ with some trepidation,; I didn’t recognise a shop when I saw one. This time I had a quick shower and was off into the market, with the light rapidly fading. This time the night market held no terrors, and the one beside Khar station was lovely. There were many fruit and vegetable stalls giving a rich fresh smell to the night air, and little stalls selling rice dishes served up on dried leaves. I still marvel at how so much food can be sold so frequently to so many.
‘What are you looking for?’ asked a man as I sought a clean-looking chai stall, and he proceeded to offer to show me the sights on Mumbai.
‘Thanks, that will be good, in the dark.’ I replied. They must think I’m a tourist.
5 June 2010
Kurla Station
I know why Kurla station was crowded now. The replacement for the derailed Kolcotta - Mumbai train bring in the passengers and walking woulnded pulled in thirty minutes later - saw it live on an Indian TV station. Sad.
Pune Manmad Express
I still love Indian railways. I was ridiculously early at Pune station for my last trip to Mumbai, mistaking 1026 for the departure time, when it was actually the train number. Never mind, I had the pleasure of watching the station being cleaned. First, the lady with the switch broom brought all the bits out from the edges and under the seats, and splashed a bit of water about – more promise than lick, I’m afraid. Then the guy in charge dipped a cup in a bucket of water and threw water all over the platform for two lads with huge squeegees to sluice around. The guy splashed water with only partial regard to either passengers or bags, which was entertaining, and the Indians, as ever, carried on the business of catching trains, without complaint. The squeegee boys push the water and rubbish into piles – and shove it onto the track.
The net result is to remove all the goodies on which the flies had been feeding, leaving them with nothing more exciting to land on than the perspiring bodies of the travellers, which they did in their droves.
I was a bit restless on the train, journey’s end I suppose, and spent most of my time in the doorway watching the Mararashtran landscape pass by. The train climbs slowly to around 2000 ft. above sea level, giving magnificent views across deep gorges to distant mountains.
I had to change at Karjat station, and switch to a local train. Great fun this, I wish I’d found the time to do it more often. This is the archetypal cram-’em-all-on train, and the nearer to the centre of Mumbai we came, the greater the crowding. Kurla station, my final destination, was crowded with people, and had the media in attendance. A Bollywood star no doubt.
The net result is to remove all the goodies on which the flies had been feeding, leaving them with nothing more exciting to land on than the perspiring bodies of the travellers, which they did in their droves.
I was a bit restless on the train, journey’s end I suppose, and spent most of my time in the doorway watching the Mararashtran landscape pass by. The train climbs slowly to around 2000 ft. above sea level, giving magnificent views across deep gorges to distant mountains.
I had to change at Karjat station, and switch to a local train. Great fun this, I wish I’d found the time to do it more often. This is the archetypal cram-’em-all-on train, and the nearer to the centre of Mumbai we came, the greater the crowding. Kurla station, my final destination, was crowded with people, and had the media in attendance. A Bollywood star no doubt.
The final curtain
How strange. I’ve seen my last digester in India, I have no-one to phone, no last-minute arrangements to make. Tomorrow I head for Mumbai and home, which means dragging the hitherto pointless jumper from the bottom of my bag – I had to bring it, it was -2º C in London when I left – and place it within reach for landing. Despite a little flare-up early in the week, I think I’m safe from the Eggnog-Falafel volcano this time too.
More grim news.
A train derailment between Mumbai and Kolkotta, killing over 70, believed to be sabotage by Maoists. I’ve seen evidence of communists in the villages around Hyderabad, and many more in Kerala. There are red painted concrete monuments, some with the hammer and sickle emblem. Red flags fly from buildings, and strings of flags are draped from the temples. On one occasion fifty or more motorcycles with the riders and passengers holding flags and pennants on poles, five or six abreast in the road, swept through one of the villages like a troupe of knights. The workforce in India has rights, but they are not always implemented. Longer hours, fewer holidays – all the usual abuses, has led to a communist grip in certain areas where the communist party claims to defend the rights of poor workers. From what I can glean there was a split in the party in the 60s, and the communist party are respectable, and the Marxist/Maoist versions indisputably violent.
Hossein from Iran
This was a nice little interlude. The weekend breakfast was a busy affair. It was served under an awning to the side of the hotel, on only four tables, so you have to share. There was a big friendly group from Chennai – a large family and friends. One of the ladies ran an engineering firm which supplies products to the Indian Railways, and was interested in what I was doing. She thought there was scope for coupling on-board latrines and railway biogas plants, and we’ll be discussing this at a later date. She thought it was terrible that train latrines discharged onto the tracks. I was too embarrassed to admit it happens in the UK too. They all left Sunday night, so Monday was just me and the newspaper when a young Iranian bounced into breakfast, offering me some of the honey which he stirred into his milk. He refused the Indian breakfast, ‘It is like lunch’, he said - which is true.
A very open an honest fellow, he gave me his opinion of Iran, of its leaders past and present, and wanted to know what I thought of his country. It was all very enlightening. He got me to skype my friends in Gaza to see what they thought of Iran, which was equally enlightening. In between what he was doing, and what I was doing, we squeezed in a visit to the Gandhi Museum. As with so many monuments here, signposting is minimal, and on arrival we set off looking round the gardens of the palace. Twenty minutes later we were found by security and ushered to the front to get our tickets.
‘A ticket is very important’ the guard chided. All these guards, a detector to walk through; we missed it completely and they missed us!
The Guru
I went to the outskirts of Pune, where the Appropriate Rural Technology Institute (ARTI) http://www.arti-india.org/ is sited. Three small rooms on the second floor of a rather unprepossessing building are where it all happens. Dr Karve had been out of town (when I’d spoken to him the previous day, he was still on the train) and here he was, smiling and courteous – the great man himself.
Dr Anand Karve, a botanist, has ideas on everything, and a great desire to help his fellow man in the hard rural conditions of the sub-continent. Working on the premise that if the standard of living can be improved in the rural areas, there will be less migration to the cities, he set out his stall of easy-to-follow technology. The global poor have always followed the route to where they believe the urban money lies, and as we all know the streets are never paved with gold, and so an urban sub-class of slum dwellers develops. Dr Karve’s techniques are simple, effective, and based on sound science. They deal with seed sowing and nursery culture, irrigation and other husbandry methods; charcoal making, better stoves, and the use of food waste to replace gobar for a more efficient supply if biogas. These and more we discussed, and he has been very generous with his time.
Pune
Pune is the most cosmopolitan city I have stayed in, in India. There is a distinct lack of livestock on the roads, no camel carts, no rickshaws, and hardly any bicycles. In all other towns, the ladies almost always wear saris or Indian dress, but here many are in tops and jeans, even some of the older women. Most men and boys wear western dress in the other towns I’ve seen, though I saw more in lunghis and other traditional garb in Hyderabad and Trivandrum. Here, hardly one to be seen, and a number of men are in shorts.
The houses in Pune are a mixture of the modern concrete, and old colonial; the latter being terribly run down to the point of dereliction. It seems a shame. Funny how, even though I have seen wonderful and ancient buildings, I feel a deep-down 'British' pang when I look at the old colonials. Perhaps it's my ancestors talking to me.
There is a park close to the hotel. It opens early in the morning and again in the evening. I had wandered in on Sunday during the day, only to have a whistle blown at me by the security guard. Apparently the gate had been left open and I was not allowed to be there. I was ushered out. I walked in it again on Monday evening after my meal. Alas it closed at 8.30 – a whistle was blown at me and I was ushered out again. By Tuesday I had the measure of it; early breakfast and a walk in the park. It is quite a formal affair with clipped hedges, elephant statues, a pond and a temple. There are flower beds too, some with deep-red leaved oxalis and arum, but mostly the flowers are not out. At the far end, enclosed within a low clipped hedge, there is a tank – a military tank that is – captured from the Pakistanis in 1971, and presented to the people of Pune.
Next to the hotel is an ‘unlimited thali’ restaurant. ‘All you can eat’ is a nice idea at the time, but I just cannot eat like an Indian – I never even reach the rice stage. These tiny ladies on the adjacent table seem to tuck it all away somewhere. I’ve been three times and it will be a bad idea for me to go again I think. Still it’s very popular, and was busy all day Sunday. The clients were targeted by a drum beating lady accompanied by a man and a boy with large whips. They demand money, and if you don’t give, they crack the whips over their backs. Its probably just noise, I don’t think they hurt themselves. Whatever – I’m not giving. I can withstand your pain, chaps.
My mattress seems very hard – like sleeping on a board. On the first night I got up to investigate. I am sleeping on a board, and the mattress is only just 3 inches thick. Outside the hotel, people are sleeping on the pavement without so much as a blanket under them. I’ll bear with the situation; a few days and I’ll be in my own bed, and they will still be on the pavement.
The houses in Pune are a mixture of the modern concrete, and old colonial; the latter being terribly run down to the point of dereliction. It seems a shame. Funny how, even though I have seen wonderful and ancient buildings, I feel a deep-down 'British' pang when I look at the old colonials. Perhaps it's my ancestors talking to me.
There is a park close to the hotel. It opens early in the morning and again in the evening. I had wandered in on Sunday during the day, only to have a whistle blown at me by the security guard. Apparently the gate had been left open and I was not allowed to be there. I was ushered out. I walked in it again on Monday evening after my meal. Alas it closed at 8.30 – a whistle was blown at me and I was ushered out again. By Tuesday I had the measure of it; early breakfast and a walk in the park. It is quite a formal affair with clipped hedges, elephant statues, a pond and a temple. There are flower beds too, some with deep-red leaved oxalis and arum, but mostly the flowers are not out. At the far end, enclosed within a low clipped hedge, there is a tank – a military tank that is – captured from the Pakistanis in 1971, and presented to the people of Pune.
Next to the hotel is an ‘unlimited thali’ restaurant. ‘All you can eat’ is a nice idea at the time, but I just cannot eat like an Indian – I never even reach the rice stage. These tiny ladies on the adjacent table seem to tuck it all away somewhere. I’ve been three times and it will be a bad idea for me to go again I think. Still it’s very popular, and was busy all day Sunday. The clients were targeted by a drum beating lady accompanied by a man and a boy with large whips. They demand money, and if you don’t give, they crack the whips over their backs. Its probably just noise, I don’t think they hurt themselves. Whatever – I’m not giving. I can withstand your pain, chaps.
My mattress seems very hard – like sleeping on a board. On the first night I got up to investigate. I am sleeping on a board, and the mattress is only just 3 inches thick. Outside the hotel, people are sleeping on the pavement without so much as a blanket under them. I’ll bear with the situation; a few days and I’ll be in my own bed, and they will still be on the pavement.
A stupid thing
This is only the second hotel with tea making facilities in the room. The kettle is a tiny little thing, and spends most of its time with the flex wrapped round the base. I boiled the kettle as I have done all my life and went to pour the water in the cup. The coiled flex caught, the loose lid flew of, and boiling water flew over my right hand. I was in a bit of disarray for a while. Yes, I ran cold (ish) water over it, and could see that a triangle of skin had come away from the back of my hand. The rest was red, and I wasn’t sure about the extent of the damage. I have a bag full of first aid things, but nothing for burns – I didn’t anticipate making tea with my own skin. I only have plasters to cover it with, but don’t want to stick anything to the red part yet. This may be a problem tonight. What an idiot.
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