Ciao ciao Cyberabad

With a flight booked for 7.30am I had to be up by about 1am. But any hope of getting as much sleep as possible was dashed when I was woken by two of my cousin's friends who had turned up late at night for what seemed to be a late night chat - and because one didn't want to go to his mother's house to lock the gate (Don't ask - I'm just relaying what I heard). My poor cousin had sat up with them all night and so had missed out on any sleep and now looked exhausted.

Dominic was escorting me to the airport, but when the taxi came his friends bundled in too, making more of a party atmosphere to my leaving. And so with Lata Mangeshkar screaming out Bollywood hits through a speaker right by my ears, we zoomed off into the night, with Secunderabad looking something like a deserted film set, all empty doorways and dusty roads. When it was this quiet without the headaches, I felt quite sad to leave it. But recently during the night, I had been woken several times by loud bangs and for the the first time ever in India, found myself wondering whether it was fireworks or gunfire. Of course with the wedding season in full swing it was fireworks, and yet I found myself worried at my own paranoia.

To wake up the boys we stopped briefly by a tea stand by the side of a slip road into what looked like a motorway. Hyderabad and Secunderabad are full of modern roads and constructions, and yet as though clinging on to the old ways, three women wearing modern safety jackets over their saris bent double as they swept the road with small, grass brooms; a pointless task, it seemed to me, as the Indian dust relentlessly takes over roads, homes and living creatures. As the women swept in the gloom, men huddled around the stall drinking chai and gossiping. I didn't want tea so stayed in the car, while remembering that feeling of drinking hot, sweet chai in the cool night air, with the sound of bottled gas burning as the chai walla makes fresh omlettes for the hungry hoards.

But soon we arrived at Hyderabad's airport, a place that goes by the name of Shamshabad, or Rajiv Gandhi International Airport, or Hyderabad Airport, or - as the stamp on my passport now shows - Cyberabad. And with British Airways taking its maiden flight from there, everything was to run like clockwork, with BA staff doing their utmost to make the experience a good one - even presenting each passenger with rock hard, Indian-made chocolates in a BA box bearing a celebratory picture of the Charminar. But it's the thought that counts. And everyone loves a freebie.

Yet while BA was doing its best, despite the modern glory of Cyberabad airport, the old 'shanti shanti' attitude was still rife. At passport control, two men sat at their posts looking as though they were having a nap. When I approached one he blanked me for several minutes and continued his rest; he didn't look at me and didn't say anything to me and so I stood confused, unsure as to whether I should go to another counter. Eventually he showed signs of life, sat up, stabbed a finger at his computer and took my passport. "Form," he grunted. I handed over my departure card. Without looking at me at all, or even checking to see whether I matched the mug shot photo he stamped my passport and handed it back without even glancing my way. So if I were someone else travelling on a stolen passport.... whoopee!

At the next stop - security - several people in uniform sat around chatting without it being clear which machines were in operation and whether anyone was actually working. Barrier tapes stretched across most of the gates so it was not even obvious where passengers were supposed to walk. Eventually a man or a woman - I couldn't tell which, either a plain girl or a pretty boy - looked at me and wordlessly made a waving hand gesture. "Sorry?" I said, unable to understand this form of communication. S/he made the gesture again. I said "sorry?" again. S/he waved his/her hand again, this time more irritated, before saying in a voice that implied that I was an idiot, "Put your bag on the machine" pointing to a machine that looked unmanned and switched off. I put my bags on and said to him/her in my most disapproving voice (which I have been told can be quite nasty), "Sorry, I didn't understand what (makes hand gesture) meant." S/he looked away. The mood I was in, I wished I could have been evil or at least sent him/her to the corner of the room to stand in shame.

Once through security I found myself in Shamshabad's glittering duty free emporium. But no sooner had I walked in then I was descended upon by at least half a dozen sales assistants who despite being in this plush, modern set-up, behaved no different to street hawkers; hassling me to look and buy. So whereas I actually needed some new sunglasses and wouldn't have minded looking at the cosmetics, I ended up refusing to look at anything and escaping as quickly as possible, rushing to hide out in the very comfortable Plaza Premium Lounge.* And so with very mixed feelings of sorrow, irritation, regret and relief it was goodbye to India. More than usual it has been a roller coaster ride, and this time with a real appreciation of my guardian angels.

* For an annual fee, travellers can purchase a priority pass, which entitles them to use lounges in airports around the world. If like me you travel in cattle class, it is well worth the expense. See www.prioritypass.com

Pants

And very quickly I had to share this with you all. As many of you know, India is a real combination of the modern and ancient. And yet it seem that the proliferation of the modern hasn't yet spread all the way through Hyderabad. This became apparent to me when the servant produced a rather large, comfy pair of men's underpants and asked me if they were mine. Apart from being slightly offended, obviously (to moi) they were my cousin's. I refuse to believe that it could be thought that a woman could wear something like that.... surely!!!???

Coming to the land of ice and snow...

Limca: 'Contains no fruit'

Out of twelve trips to India I have cut four short; one by four days because my husband and I were exhausted and sick, and the train journey to Varanasi and back seemed soooo long, another because the UK Foreign Office warned me to leave immediately, another because after a few months I felt it was time to stop being a lazy bum and go home and get a job, and now this time. (Out of those twelve trips two were extended, so it works both ways.)

But one thing always happens once that decision is made; apart from feeling anxious to just get on that plane and plug into light entertainment, I always start enjoying India more. Today, after picking up my ticket Dominic, his friend Claude and I headed off to see Hyderabad's stone Buddha. Standing at over 17.5 metres it is one of Asia's (possibly the world's?) largest monoliths, set on a small island in the middle of Tank Bund. Since first attempts to erect it resulted in it keeling over and killing a few people in the process, it has been considered unlucky. I did hear a few years ago that nobody would inaugurate it (bless it) because of this, but today noticed that HH the Dalai Lama did the job two years ago.

I wanted to see it again because it is only when one gets close that it is possible to see its beauty. From the road it looks like nothing much at all, so first sight is very deceptive.



Dominic had said that last time he went with a relative to the Buddha they paid a higher price for a boat that had 'some dirty women dancing to some music'. This, he said, was a disgrace and a complete waste of money. Naturally, I thought that it sounded like completely classy entertainment and wanted the dirty women boat. But that one, unfortunately only sails around the Buddha island and doesn't stop; whereas for Rs45 each we could have ten whole minutes on the island.


To get to the boats one has to go through Lumbini Park, a nicely-kept piece of greenery which involves a Rs5 ticket and a security check. Always worth mentioning, there is also a very clean public toilet block where a guard in uniform blew his whistle at us and waved his hand irritably to shepherd us in. At first with all that fuss I wasn't sure if the loos were out of bounds or not and so hesitated, which meant that I got whistled at even more. Good job I was near to the ladies' by then because I had to laugh...


After the Buddha we headed back via a couple of chores Dominic had for his niece's up-and-coming wedding (the cake tastes very nice!). And as I sat drinking ice-cold, allegedly-carcinogenic Limca in a rickshaw, I wondered if I was doing the right thing by leaving. I have stayed in India many times when it has not been considered safe to do so, but everyone has to trust their gut instinct and I do feel that it is time to go home. There will be more Limca another time, if I want it. If all goes well, I will be in Londinium this Sunday, courtesy of British Airways.

And then...

If you take a local bus in India you will see that most passengers are men. There will be women, but they are definitely in the minority. It is the same when you are out in the streets, shops and chai stalls. Women clearly exist, well there are a billion Indian citizens to prove that fact, but in India even though the role of the woman is changing it is still definitely men who live in the Outside World and women who preside over the Inside World; the domains of society and home.

There is a woman living here in Hyderabad who almost never goes out. She did work before and plans to again, yet at the moment for the foreseeable future she is at home looking after the house. If any groceries are needed the servant can bring them, or the seller can deliver them; there is no need to go anywhere. And so I suppose that when this way of life is seen as normal for women, it is understandable that people cannot fully understand why I am becoming frustrated as my options to move about become fewer.

It turned out that yesterday's shooting at Hyderabadi police was terror-related, in that the police were trying to arrest a 'known terrorist', and since then in a separate turn of events three of India's airports have been put on high alert as a warning came in for a planned attack. There is even talk of India and Pakistan going to war, although I suspect that is not likely.... as a news junkie and someone who has some experience of the media, I find the journalism here sensationalist and possibly even war-mongering. The one channel I am able to understand for news used dramatic music and sound effects while reporting the attacks on Mumbai, and when introducing one particular story used a computerised blood-soaked effect, making its news stories only one step away from a Bollywood spectacular.

The effects of all this make it difficult to do anything or go anywhere. My plans to get away from Hyderabad were thwarted by over-crowded trains and the prospect of being stuck here for days. I had hoped to go to Aurangabad, but it would be a while before I could go. My own advice has always been to have a Plan B and a Plan C in case of emergencies, and I have spent a long time studying the map of India looking for alternatives. But each location within reasonable distance for the time I have left and the time of year (it will be very cold up north) either didn't appeal or I had already seen it done it worn the t-shirt. There was the possibility of Goa but my gut-instinct was against this. According to the local media Indians are choosing to avoid Goa at present because it is considered a potential target for trouble, simply because it is so popular with tourists. However this wasn't my main concern. Really I was less inclined towards Goa because I find it so utterly boring.

So having booked nothing, by the time I left the reservation office in Secunderabad, where I'd had to deal with a particularly unhelpful and moody woman, I was not in a good mood. The heat was scorching and the traffic fumes and dust were making it hard to breathe. So when I then checked the internet and saw about the threats on Delhi, Bangalore and Chennai airports enough was enough. I am now trying to get a flight home direct from Hyderabad so I do not have to bother with Mumbai at all. My cousin Dominic has tried to persuade me to stay, saying that I am safe with them. Of course I know that I am safe with them but sitting in the house watching the world outside become increasingly tense is not my idea of a holiday. I am now waiting to hear from an agent with a confirmation of a flight but as I have said elsewhere, IST really does stand for Indian Stretchable Time so who knows how long I will have to wait.

Planning to plan

Snow World, Charminar, being over-fed by my family, giving drum lessons to my little cousin... my world had started to become extremely normal and relaxed; so much so that yesterday, after working for a little bit on my current writing project I was overcome by the urge to sleep. After all, it was about 1pm and I had been up for at least three hours.

But the servant shook me out of my slumber with a cup of tea and then when my cousin's wife returned from work squealed on what I had done that day. I had - prepare to be shocked/disgusted/appalled - bought a packet of tea! Yes, sob sob sob, I am so sorry. I couldn't help it. I had used up the last of the tea and so went out and bought some more. And to add to my sins, I had bought a loaf of bread too... can I ever be forgiven? Of course going out and buying groceries is not proper guest-like behaviour, so my shopping list became quite an item of news yesterday. But as you all know, I am an addict and I couldn't face the thought of needing a cuppa and being without.

This is the thing about servants in India; they see everything and they report everything. It's a good job I don't have a gentleman caller because that would be reported too.

But this easy-going atmosphere was broken yesterday afternoon with news reports that two policemen had been shot at just down the road. Hyderabad can be something of a touch-point for communal violence, although all religions do generally get on well, but it still shook me to think that there could be trouble here too. It was more a feeling of 'oh bloody hell, not again'. It's very off-putting being holed up in a house or hotel while people riot nearby. I've gone through it a few times in India, and let's just say that the novelty does wear off after the first few seconds.

So I emailed the British Consulate in Chennai for advice - they have not contacted me, thank you very much! And then I contacted the person who would definitely know best - my mum. Mum, of course threw it back at me and said to sleep on it. And so I did.

Last night I had a fairly good night's sleep and only had to show Puppy the cricket bat twice. By the morning people weren't rioting outside but I have still decided that it is time to move on, and I am pretty much decided where, but that is to be confirmed. Of course my lovely cousins are not happy about this, and I know are going to try to persuade me to stay. Last night when I was discussing the police-shooting incident in Hyderabad, Dominic told me not to worry because it hadn't been terrorists. "These are some private people," he said. Ah well, that makes all the difference! Seriously though, I do know what he meant, but it just doesn't help me to want to stay right now.

Time to make a move.

Postcard from Charminar

Looking up at Charminar

Charminar (meaning four minarets - char being four) is one of Hyderabad’s iconic buildings, constructed in the 16th century to - according to the Lonely Planet - commemorate the end of a devastating epidemic; a bit of a strange way to mark the end of an epidemic, perhaps. I would have thought a wild party would have gone down very well instead. However the Charminar is a beautiful building, as Islamic constructions tend to be, and is worth a visit. Surrounded by a busy market area, the monument stands like a graceful oasis to the mayhem of the old city. But like most Indian attractions it costs more to get in if you are a foreigner. In the good old days when I had a resident’s permit I could get in on Indian prices, but no longer, unfortunately. So while it is five rupees for Indians, it is one hundred for foreigners. My cousins say I should insist that I am Indian, but of course I would never get away with it. (Anyway I did try that one a few years ago at other tourist attractions but locals can sniff out a foreigner or NRI at fifty paces.)

Hyderabad was my first port of call as an adult twenty-two years ago, and despite spending a great deal of time in the city and returning a few years ago, this was the first time I actually got to go in the Charminar. The reason for this is that the monument has remained shut for many years, after it proved a rather popular place for lemming impersonations. One story I heard many years ago was that three orphaned sisters jumped to their deaths to spare their brother the burden of finding them dowries, but according to my cousins there are several other such cases.

To get to the top one has to climb very narrow, steep, winding stairs. There is one flight of stairs for up and another for down. But of course it should have been predictable that I would meet a bunch of idiots coming down the up stairs, leaving me and those behind me almost no room to pass in the dark. The Idiots chose to block the nice, fat part of the stairs, leaving us to pass on the inside. As we were going up a spiral, this meant about an inch or so of foothold. The Idiots were also standing by a landing and could have moved out of the way but this was obviously far too complicated.

A spice-seller negotiates his way through rickshaws

Once at the top, one gets a stunning view of the madness below. A person who shall remain nameless, but she knows who she is, told me once that she was taken to the Charminar after smoking dope, and found the whole experience completely bizarre as the traffic honked its way round and around and around. And the view from the top is really worth seeing as down below rickshaws, street-traders, taxis, cars and pedestrians pass round the Charminar, vying for road-space and trying not to be mowed down by something bigger. When Maryann (Keith’s wife) and I also tried to cross the road to leave Charminar we had to play chicken along with everyone else and take our chances.

I had chosen to go to Charminar because I thought it was about time I did some shopping, and because this part of Hyderabad has a variety of fabric, sari, leather and jewellery shops. But after being shown a few overpriced saris and feeling my throat and eyes burn with the dust and pollution of the place, I lost interest. “Did you buy anything?” my cousins asked when Maryann and I returned home.

“A bunch of bananas,” I replied.

“Oh, nothing nice.”

“They’re nice bananas.”

And so here is a short film of a view from Charminar. For some reason the madness does not seem so apparent in the movie, so you’ll have to take my word for it.

While I was away, Dominic was at home busy making a huge star to put over the house for Christmas. This started out as a wooden frame, which was covered in silver paper and then illuminated with a green bulb inside. I thought it was a little early for Christmas decorations, but apparently the 1^st of December is the traditional date for this branch of the family. I did also wonder about the star of Bethlehem being green, but hey, who knows what colour stars were in those days.... and Dominic just gave a big grin and chuckle when I mentioned it.

Anyway the star was launched over the house with much ado as I tried to take a photograph. This resulted in a little crowd of men who all had an opinion on how I should take the picture. “That should be zoomed,” I could hear being murmured behind me, “Yes, yes that’s better.” Not a surprise really. I have even had a group of people in India expressing an opinion on how I should stick down an envelope, so really complicated stuff like photography is bound to attract attention.

While the photos were going on Dominic’s two friends/assistants climbed up onto the roof to have their picture taken with the star; one remaining up there and posing long after I had put the camera away.

Ah, you have to smile.

Now to head off - the keyboard and mouse in this internet café are sticky... also I think something has crawled up my trouser leg and is feasting on me...