Punjabi Visit

I escaped Delhi this weekend. A group of us flew north into Punjab to visit the astonishing Golden Temple of the Sikhs in Amritsar, and to witness the sunset closing-of-the-border ceremony in Attari – a town on the boundary line between India and Pakistan.

The Punjab is one of India’s northernmost states, and acts as a precarious wedge between the disputed Jammu & Kashmir region and the other disputer, Pakistan. The state is the spiritual home for India’s 15 million Sikhs, with Amritsar the beating heart of the religion. Given its latitude and the time of year, the city is mild during the day but chilly once the sun goes down. It’s also quite small in comparison to the swollen masses of Delhi and Bombay, but no less chaotic (it’s still India after all). Amritsar is only lightly touched by the encroachment of globalisation and so makes for a much more traditional Indian experience. The streets are narrow and snake around temples, gardens and other municipal landmarks. There’s even less organised traffic than the big cities, with bicycles and auto-rickshaws winning the war of numbers over more modern methods of people movement. There are no large buildings save for the holy type, and what other structures there are seem to have grown of their own accord. Easily the most absorbing aspect of Amritsar is the locals. Given the overwhelming Sikh presence here, nearly all men wear turbans and sport bristly beards and moustaches. Many also carry large curved swords. The Sikhs are majestic in their appearance and are overwhelmingly colourful – both in the way they interact and their choice of adornment.

We arrived early on Saturday and made our way straight to the temple. We soon realised that unplugging ourselves from the bubble was an exercise requiring incremental steps. Our enthusiasm in wishing to experience the ‘real’ India meant that we had initially turned our noses up at the thought of staying in sensible accommodation. The Sikhs, with golden hearts to match their temple, offer a free bed to those making the pilgrimage to Amritsar. We thought the offer to be extremely appropriate given our self assessed fit as pilgrims. This assessment proved to be quite inaccurate.

The Sikhs have a number of peculiarities unique to their faith. On top of this, they apply another layer of dogma to those wishing to enter a Sikh temple. Only the most devout follow every one of these sacred encumbrances, yet all pilgrims are expected to observe a minimum application of the rules. This consists of covering one’s head and washing one’s feet to prepare for entry into the temple. These are quite straight forward, but severely detract from the appeal of the temple as an abode for the night. Headscarves are given out at the entrance, but are most likely soaked with mites, lice and other head scroungers that provide too much of a hurdle in wanting to wear one while sleeping. The other problem is the washing of feet, or should I say the dunking of feet into water that even bacteria would refuse to multiply in. This observation leaves many parts of the temple continuously marinating in the stench of a thousand pairs of pilgrim’s feet. After calculating the cumulative nausea we could expect from sleeping like a pilgrim, we decided that the price tag was probably appropriate, and that we would not be taking up the offer. We skulked back into our bubble and checked into a hotel. It was extremely basic lodgings and in reality not much better than the temple’s offer, but there is always a certain comfort in being solely accountable for whatever odours are present within one’s personal space.

Despite its limitations as a residence, the Golden Temple is a sight to behold. The entire complex consists of the temple itself positioned in the centre of a huge manmade lake. The lake is surrounded by an enormous fortified parameter building that is totally whitewashed and finished with delicate, seemingly colonial, architecture. The temple’s eponymous substance is fashioned over almost the entirety of the façade in the most elegant frescos detailing Sikh history and beliefs. What’s most impressive is the amount of gold required for this task. It’s estimated that over 750kg of it was used in providing the temple its precious coat. The grandeur and majesty of the temple brought about an inexorable awe. That it is also the spiritual seat of a major religion made for a very powerful experience. I doubt I’ll easily forget the visit.

Amritsar's Golden Temple by day...

...and again by night.

The afternoon’s journey to Attari provided a most comical contrast to the morning’s activity. We arrived in time for sunset, at which time the closing-of-the-border ceremony takes place between India and Pakistan – best of friends all the time. Whatever purpose this ceremony was once designed for has long been replaced with the need to create a daily stage upon which two neighbouring aggressors can act out all manner of pompous militarised buffoonery.

Let it not be said that each side doesn’t take the event seriously. There are two sets of gates that are erected almost flush with one another, representing the only thoroughfare between the two countries. On each side a troop of puffed up guards, in the most immaculate and ludicrous uniforms, attempt to out-stomp and out-glare each other for the amusement of onlookers – who by this time have been herded into grandstands on each side of the border. Both the Pakistani and Indian guards are dressed identically save for the colours of their uniforms, both sides sport steely glares and outrageous moustaches and both sides are equally in danger of being flooded by their own bluster. In erstwhile synchronicity, both troops will perform a series of yells, stomps and other pedestrian manoeuvres designed to get close enough to the gates to close them. A spectacular component of the performance is the procession of each side’s guards toward the gate. One at a time, the guards propel themselves forward using high kicks until they stand eyeball to eyeball at the gates. Should there ever be need for it, each of these guards could quite easily kick themselves in the face. I wouldn’t doubt that this could in fact be incorporated into the routine if ever interest in the ceremony begins to wane. The performance concludes with a painfully slow lowering of each country’s flag (it must be done slowly so that neither flag is ever lower than the other – a sign of inferiority). Then it’s a frosty handshake between the two head guards and the gates slam shut.

While the ceremony itself is a rather serious affair (despite its Monty Pythonesque elements), the behaviour of the crowd during its playing out is certainly not. Both countries are represented by hordes of screaming fanatics boiling over with patriotic fervour. Flags are thrashed about, chants are screamed (Hindustan! Hindustan!) and music erupts from enormous loudspeakers aimed directly at the eardrums of the neighbouring participants. It’s a wild occasion, one which resembles the conduct usually reserved for close sporting events between two traditional rivals. Except this isn’t cricket, this is the securing of a border pass between two nuclear states with some terribly bad blood.

Despite the seriousness of current Indo-Pakistani relations, we thoroughly enjoyed this circus of rehearsed brinkmanship. Overall, our weekend visit to Punjab was most worthwhile.

Interesting discoveries:

• ‘Paan’ is a form of chewing tobacco that includes saffron and types of incense. It’s sold in sachets at most street vendors. If you are new to chewing tobacco, do not attempt to swallow the whole sachet in one go. In fact, don’t even attempt to swallow it. You will become very sick, very quickly, and begin to retch on the side of the street. This is embarrassing and also quite distressing. I won’t do it again.

Administrative facts:

• Curry-o-meter: 36 consumed.
• Amritsar is known for the Amritsar Massacre (1919) and Operation Blue Star (1984) – both events bloody and terribly handled. The latter resulting in Indira Gandhi’s assassination during her prime ministry.
• While there are 15 million Sikhs in India, some estimates place the number of Christians in India somewhere between 100-200 million.

Song of the moment:

Auron Dors, by Santo Bonacci.

Indian border guard: half peacock, half moustache.

Crowds on the Pakistani side of the border, awaiting the start of the ceremony.

Photo Update

Below are a few shots of the apartment. It's currently an oasis within otherwise hostile terrain. We hope to change this. As with all my pictures, these are hi-res so you can click to enlarge...

The bar:
wooden

One of the loungerooms:
Dracula was unhappy about being turned into a lounge suite.

The most interesting of our available balcony views:
welcome to Gurgaon

...and a couple more of Dilli Haat bazaar in Delhi, the scene of Saturday's first round of reckless spending...

Dilli Haat bazaar:
iridescent

Decadence

I’ve led a disgustingly decadent life this weekend. I awoke at 2pm on Saturday, after having spent all Friday night rubbing shoulders with Delhi’s well groomed and well heeled at the Park Hotel’s poolside cocktail bar, Aqua. I didn’t feel well enough to do anything save for making a substantial contribution to India’s economy. As a result, Prameet, John (another colleague from New York) and I began a search for exotic merchandise and artefacts. This campaign took us to Dilli Haat, a labyrinthine bazaar that honeycombed hundreds of stalls and souks together to produce a maelstrom of pashmina, artworks and other assorted treasures. I thought it appropriate to purchase all these things, along with a briefcase wrought from camel leather and hessian.

After the first dip into the inviting waters of retail expenditure, I decided to unleash the full extent of my souped-up purchasing power on a bespoke tailor a colleague had referred me to. I spent three hours (two of which were past the store’s official closing time) being smartened up by a phalanx of cloth surgeons. It was perilously fun. I became giddy from the attention and found myself being measured for things a man my age and standing just isn’t qualified to wear. Prameet was right next to me, being fitted for traditional Indian suits for his brother’s wedding. It soon got out of control. I had ordered two custom tailored three piece suits and ten shirts when I realised I needed to decelerate. I quipped to one of the tailors that I needed a break to eat. Immediately an underling was dispatched to investigate which local restaurants would be able to send food and a waiter back to the tailor’s shop.

We did manage to escape around 11pm, and the issue of dinner had yet to be resolved (despite having the food & groom service made available to us). We wanted to dine at Lodi Garden restaurant, yet another establishment floating in the clouds of severe exclusiveness. We knew the restaurant’s peculiar licensing arrangement prevented the serving of alcohol to its garden tables – and we really wanted a garden table. To overcome this, we had the driver facilitate a detour to a lounge bar that served as an important entrée to an amazing Lodi midnight dinner. The Lodi gardens are quite expansive, and we were not able to see much of them given the late hour. But we did experience enough to understand Lodi’s enchantment. Candles hung in the air like will-o'-the-wisps but were much less deceptive in their lure. The restaurant’s tables are located within the gardens – the precise co-ordinates of each known only to the waiting staff. Equally well hidden among the trees are pianos and other forms of tranquil music production that contribute to an ambience unmatchable in ethereal dining.

Interesting discoveries:

• Lodi

Administrative facts:

• Curries consumed so far: 24 – including a fiery Orissan curry from Dilli Haat

Song of the moment:

Lovely Head, by Goldfrapp.

Moving to Jan Pratinidhi and Arjun's Wedding

I’m surrounded by staff. My staff. Hundreds of them. Bobby, Prameet, and I have become India’s latest top floor residents with our recent move into the penthouse apartment in the Jan Pratinidhi complex. We have four bedrooms, five bathrooms, five balconies, two lounge rooms and a bar. We are also housed within a décor that resembles something between a bordello and a mausoleum. Our family circle has also swelled to three house staff and two drivers. While all this help may sound exotic, in reality it’s exactly that – help. Assistance is required over here constantly because India is quite an inhospitable place. One cannot get around without a car, and foreigners cannot drive a car without a death wish. We have people to clean, launder and run errands for us - not because we won’t do these tasks, but because we can’t. We have no washing machine, no cleaning products and no means of tackling even the most basic chore.

Our five balconies are interesting too. Not from any architectural quirk but because of the views they provide – absolute nothingness. Gurgaon is an arid dustbowl punctuated with isolated office buildings, apartment blocks and the odd hyper-mall. Our 360 degree view is composed of a few shanties, deserted construction pits and sandy oblivion. I’m not going to let this get me down however, because this morning, while perusing this panorama, I decided that one does not often get the chance to have endless untouched earth at one’s disposal, with no supervision. In light of this, Prameet and I have started making some discrete enquiries into the price of dirt bikes and explosives.

As would be obvious now, our house in Vasant Vihar fell through – and perhaps mercifully. On reflection I was worried about the age of the house and the slipperiness of the agent. As my experience of Delhi traffic grows, so too does my relief that I won’t be spending a couple of hours a day in transit between VV and the office.

Especially as it’s been a very demanding week. Work is to blame for this. Over the past few days I’ve been bowing to deadlines conceived in London, Brazil and India. Given the time differences, this has meant my working roughly 36 hours a day. Purists of the solar day will point to this as impossible. Well, I can assure those who’ve restricted themselves merely to diurnal living that it is. All it just takes to achieve this is adrenaline, pizza and considerable disorganisation. The madcap week was topped off by our giving Delhi another opportunity to trumpet its restaurant scene. We attended Thai Wok, a rooftop restaurant adjacent to the Qutb Minar and with incredible views of this architectural marvel. The Minar’s 70 odd metre high spire is made from sandstone and marble. Its construction commenced in AD 1199 for the use of Mu'azzin to give calls for prayer. It’s on the site of India’s first mosque.

Despite the Herculean effort needed to get through this work week, I did find time to attend my first Indian wedding. Arjun is a friend and former colleague from Melbourne who is so serious about his matrimonial commitments that he decided to hold separate ceremonies in Australia, India and Malaysia. Although I only attended the Indian third, I would be confident in saying that this shindig would have to be the high water mark. The typical Indian wedding ceremony usually elongates itself over the best part of a week and normally invites most of the country. Arjun’s festivities stretched over a weekend, with the celebrations held at a family member’s residence in Delhi’s blue ribbon district.

Friday night was the Sangeet party, which I believe is more to do with the bride. It was a lavish but informal affair, so I acted lavishly and informally. Beside the groom, the only other familiar face was Adam – a senior partner at the firm I formerly worked for, who had travelled with his wife to attend the wedding. As the waiting staff supplied more and more liquor, Adam and I developed into a bizarre double act that eventuated in the most jaw dropping fusion of traditional Indian dancing and heretical boogieing. We made an impact, and certainly a big contribution to many guests’ wedding shots for the night. What made this scene more interesting was my attire. Prior to the wedding, Arjun had half jokingly asked if I would like to wear customary Indian garb for the occasion instead of a suit. I thought that a marvellous idea and organised a costume immediately. This comprised a kurta (a silk shirt that extends to the knees), pyjama (linen pants that have stovepipe legs but a circus clown waist, with a drawstring to keep them up - and once pulled makes the wearer look like a deflated pavlova) and jutti (elf shoes with upturned toes providing much discomfort - especially during dancing manoeuvres). What made this more hilarious was that most Indians were wearing very subdued suits. I certainly stood out.

A logistical hiccup meant my missing Saturday’s actual ceremony, which was a shame as Arjun arrived on horseback to much fanfare. Adam was reported to have been dancing in front of the horse during the procession. The party on the Saturday night was as raucous as the previous night’s. I’m unsure of this celebration’s title, but I presumed it was the reception. The pace at which drinks were served seemed to confirm this. Of particular note was a transaction that took place on the dance floor close to the end of the night. In hindsight, I’m surprised this event didn’t bring about an immediate coda - for me at least. I was on the dance floor happily defiling a thousand years of Indian musical history when the crowd parted to admit the barman onto the floor. He made a beeline for me and the party formed into an audience seemingly about to witness a Christian being fed to the lions. The barman had balanced on his tray a number of vials and instruments that I recognised immediately as being for the purpose of accomplishing rapid intoxication. He deftly mixed a brownish potion in a large martini glass and set it alight. He then thrilled the crowd with his dexterous display of pouring the burning liquid from head height into another martini glass held in his other hand. My excitement was significantly less in the knowledge that very soon he was going to force me to drink this. With a flourish, the fiery waterfall finished. The barman produced a metal straw and stuck one end in the still blazing liquid and the other end into my mouth. I drank and I burned. Even in my frantic state I realised that the amount I was consuming was more than the amount leaving the glass. This is what the crowd was really cheering at. At the time I had no idea that the barman was topping up the glass with vodka and tequila in equal measure. When he finally released me from this alcoholic hamster wheel he extended his hand. I shook it not because I felt any further need to bond with this man, but because I welcomed the stability of a sober frame. There was no more dancing for me after this. I discovered after the ordeal that the brown potion was a mix of Galliano and Absinthe, and that the barman had run out of vodka.

Interesting discoveries:

• The standard birthday salutation in Hindi is ‘Janamdin mubarak ho’ – literally ‘wishing you a happy birthday’
• Parcels sent to Australia take about four days to arrive. Parcels sent from Australia just don’t arrive

Administrative facts:

• Curries consumed so far: 19 – including a few sumptuous Thai dishes
• India is the world’s 4^th largest economy, and has an active space program

Song of the moment:

Crazy Kiya Re, from the Dhoom 2 soundtrack.

The movie hasn’t been released yet, but I’ll be the first in line for tickets when it is.

Sangeet party: Arjun's wedding

ICC Champions Trophy, Brabourne Stadium:
seconds before the lightning storm,
hours before play resumed.

Restaurants and Bombay

Over this past week I’ve had dinner at three terrific restaurants. I’ve reacquainted myself with the serene Olive, uncovered south Indian treasures at the Konkan Café, and over-ate rapaciously at a Mughal banquet laid on by Bukhara. I enjoyed all these gastronomic experiences despite having endured a whole week of the weirdness and irregularity that comes with one’s first scrap with the notorious Delhi Belly.

I can’t pinpoint exactly what I was that made me sick. It possibly resulted from the housemaid simply dunking our dirty dishes in water known to poison, or it could have been the street food I ate straight off a heated metal sheet that was situated close to where a group of dogs lay dying. Regardless of its mysterious origin, the effects were fairly easy to recognise. What started as mild abdominal discomfort soon evolved into a relentless purging of everything I ate (and some things I’m sure I didn’t). This sickness, coupled with business travel, meant my having to wage war on office bathrooms all over the country. That I got sick was unfortunate, but having to manage it while spending every waking hour in either aeroplanes, client meetings or my boss’ pressurised company made this last week a tortuous one. Quite often this week I’ve had to excuse myself from meetings to ‘take an important phone call’ – only to return half an hour later, four kilos lighter and exhausted.

But enough about my minor malfunction. I’d prefer to focus on the front end of this process, being the ingestion of amazing cuisine. Last Friday we went to Bukhara – an earthy, cavernous restaurant in the bowels of the Sheraton Hotel. This is the place that promotes itself as being among the top ten best restaurants in the world. It certainly charges as if this were the case. It’s fantastic for a number of reasons but it hasn’t dislodged Olive as my current favourite eatery. Bukhara reminded me a lot of Vlado’s Steakhouse in Melbourne because of its no-frills commitment to heart-stoppingly large slabs of exquisite animal flesh. The waiting staff look dangerous too. The men (and only men) who serve the meals are attired in medieval Afghani dress and all sport a moustache and grimace that appear carved out of wood. Their service was exemplary, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that if I mispronounced a menu item then they would surely rip out my heart and serve it to the other diners. Our table shared a feast of goat, mutton, fish and root vegetables. The table itself was also furnished with a naan that shared its size and dimensions with a small sailing boat.

I backed up the Friday night Mughal meat expo with a trip back to the placid Olive. Some Australian friends (Andrew, Anthea and Mooks) were travelling through Delhi and we arranged to have dinner on the Saturday night. Self-interest trumped any desire to showcase traditional North Indian fare so I lobbied heavily for the chance to introduce them to this divine institution. It was just as good as my first visit, and my lobbying paid dividends in the form of unanimous and gushing appreciation from the party.

Finally, while down in Bombay this week I was introduced to very good quality southern Indian cooking at Konkan. I’m probably off the mark here, but I believe it’s the south Indian stuff that most of us would associate as ‘typical’ Indian food. Hot and based in a gravy that’s accompanied by rice. Lovely stuff, even at 11 o’clock in the evening.

I was in Bombay for the first half of this week which allowed me to travel down there on Sunday. For those of you who share a particular sporting interest with ‘the Blue Billion’, you would have known that Sunday saw Australia face the West Indies for the ICC Champions Trophy. I flew down on Sunday morning to see the match. After getting the hotel to secure the most expensive last minute ticket they could (which wasn’t intentional), I hired a driver to speed me to Brabourne Stadium. This was a mistake, as the driver got lost in his own city and drove around mindlessly for about an hour. With a triumphant and ridiculous grin, he finally delivered me to a stadium – one that belonged to a South Mumbai primary school for the purpose of exhibiting field hockey matches. Enraged, I solicited the help of a passing taxi driver, who then got into a very physical conversation with my inept driver in an attempt to steal me as a fare. I would have gladly swapped drivers then and there but for the sequence of events that occurred next, at terrific speed. The problem was that this discourse was playing out in the middle of a rather major street. I got out of the my car; I approached the taxi; another car rammed the taxi; the taxi driver (who had been standing at the side of his cab the whole time) screamed and dived out of the way; I got back into my car; the ramming car rammed another car; I politely instructed my driver to execute a prompt disengagement; he did this.

Three smashed cars and an hour later I arrived at the correct stadium, seething because I’d missed the first three West Indian wickets. It went downhill from there, with a three hour rain delay fuelling my frustration. The Windies had disgraced themselves at the crease and the Australians were left with a shortened innings within which to play the most boring form of one day cricket necessary to achieve the required 2.5 run rate. They attempted to spice things up by removing their flagship batsmen (Gilchrist and Ponting) for 2 and 0 respectively, but even then the remainder of the game was a farce. It didn’t help that the overwhelmingly Indian crowd was utterly subdued given the absence of a home team in the final. As the delay had pushed the game past my bedtime I ended up leaving early in disgust, opting to watch the final overs while stewing in my hotel room. The highlight of the match was witnessing a spectacular lightning storm over the stadium during the rain delay. It illustrated very appropriately how I felt.

Interesting discoveries:

• Bombay traffic is even more chaotic than Delhi’s
• Most people think I’m English
• Rolls of toilet paper in India are half the size – in that they contain only half the sheets as standard issue bogroll in the West. This caused me great consternation.

Administrative facts:

• Greater Mumbai is the largest urban region in India, in excess of 20 million people
• It’s getting colder here. Today was in the low 20s.

Song of the moment:

Back in Action, by Yash Raj Music.

Another spectacular Bollywood hit, from the Blockbuster Dhoom 2. I can’t wait to see it.

Bombay's Untouchables

Yesterday I flew to Bombay for the day. As the trip was for work I didn’t see much of the place. I’m looking forward to spending a more meaningful amount of time down there as it’s regarded as the cultural (and entertainment) capital of India. It’s also the slum capital of the world. We went to dinner at the Hyatt, where the usual metal detectors and security guards were accompanied by bomb sniffing dogs and even more security guards. Just down the road from this five star hotel is a 1.75km strip that has the unhappy honour of being the world’s largest slum – known as Dharavi.

Most of the one million inhabitants of Dharavi are Tamil wayfarers who migrated to Bombay in search of employment. The slum actually has a flourishing leather industry but is bereft of the most basic infrastructural facilities like sanitation and health care.

Before writing more, I must apologise for weighing this blog down with frequent narration on India’s poverty. This is due to a few things:

• It’s very eye-opening to an outsider
• I believe it’s a very important issue
• Given work, I don’t yet have much else to report on

I’m gathering many interesting facts and anecdotes regarding destitution in India, the most surprising fact being that many of those who live in slums do so out of choice. This is fundamentally due to the physical distance between the working class’ home and place of work. Essentially cab drivers, cleaners, hospitality staff etc will choose to live in urban shanties as commuting from their village would be out of the question. While many apologists for India’s state of affairs will point to this proportion who ‘voluntarily’ choose this way of life, it’s only really a lesser of two evils (if that).

The more unpleasant discovery I made was the relationship between poverty and organised crime. There is an Indian strain of the Mafia that is just as savvy in using cheap labour as the rest of the country. I’ve often had young kids tapping on my car window trying to hawk all manner of flotsam (typically woven crafts, magazines etc). Initially I presumed this was desperation manifesting itself commercially within the world’s largest free market. That’s still partially true, but there’s a more insidious layer below that. These kids, and many others in need, are recruited under duress to sell this crap on behalf of local crime-lords. The money foreigners charitably hand over does not benefit these vendors at all but instead finances a medley of the nasty undertakings India’s felonious underbelly is involved in. While this is a terrible scenario, part of me still believes in handing over money. Not because of what the kids can do with it, but what would happen to them if they didn’t receive it.

One last uncomfortable point on poverty: begging is lucrative, especially if one is a cunning and seasoned panhandler. Many realise this, but begging is still a market where competition exists, resulting in those who successfully promote themselves as being more in need typically reaping more in charity. This has led to the development of a service provided by unscrupulous doctors, whereby for roughly US $100 they will amputate a hand, foot or leg to make the unfortunate patient more likely to receive handouts. Sickening.

Interesting discoveries:

• Despite its size, India has no time zones or daylight savings

Administrative facts:

• Curries consumed so far: 11 (I’ve levelled out, thank Christ, after enduring my first attack of ‘Delhi belly’)
• Flight time from Delhi to Bombay: roughly two hours
• Total round trip travel time from my apartment to the Bombay office: roughly 17 hours

Song of the moment:

The Other Side, by the Scissor Sisters.