Mehndi moments

I'm off to a wedding tomorrow so I thought it would be a good occasion to have my hands decorated Indian style. Called mehndi , it involves painting intricate patterns using henna and you usually have it done for special occasions– in fact it's an integral part of the marriage ceremony for the bride. Dillip's wife, Reena, said one of her neighbour would be able to do it for me so this afternoon I strolled down the road with her and a girl from the office called Suchi to be tattooed - albeit temporarily. Although I had little to say in the matter, there was much discussion amongst those much more experienced than me on what I should have – one hand or two, only my hands or up my arms as well – until it was decided I should have the whole lot … well why not I thought I might never have it done again. The henna was applied from what looked like a miniature icing bag - in fact I felt a bit like a cake being decorated. Although the lines were much finer, they were quite deep and you could feel it drying on you. At times it looked as though she was doodling – much as you I would on a notepad during a boring meeting – and there were frequent stops to think about what to do and where to go next. The results, however, were much better than I've ever produced in a meeting and there's clearly a lot of skill and artistry involved in the process. Each hand and arm has a different but complimentary design and as my left arm was being done, the completed right one was dabbed with lemon juice which apparently ensures a better colour. During the proceedings I was offered a dish of noodles and, forgetting that one hand was covered in layers of gooey mixture and other was in the process of joining it, I accepted and then realised the only way to eat my snack was to be fed like a two-year old – Suchi obliged. Suitably nourished, I then had to wait for two hours for the henna to dry and to soak into my skin so, continuing in her motherly role – although I'm probably old enough to be her mother - Suchi very kindly offered to escort me home and carry my bags on her bicycle – it's amazing how incapacitated you feel when you can't touch or hold anything. On arrival, I was dabbed with sugared water – again to improve the colour - and then I sat, twiddling my toes, feeling very sticky – what with the lemon and the sugar – for what seemed like eternity until I could wash the stuff off. At first the finished effect had a very orange look to it – rather like American-tan tights – but as this evening has worn on the colour has become much browner – apart from the palms of my hands which for some reason are a completely different colour from the rest despite being done at the same time and with the same mixture. Maybe they'll go brown overnight or maybe they won't in any event I rather like it and think it will look really good when I don my sari again for the wedding.  To see more pictures click here.

One billion … and one

I had read in the papers that India was starting its national census and had thought it must be a bit like painting the Forth Road Bridge – by the time you have finished counting what is around 1 billion people you would have to start the process again - if not before. Do they count the seasonal migrants who are often taken illegally under duress to work in isolated brick factories hundreds of kilometres from where they live? What about the people Antodaya supports many of whom live in remote areas that are only accessible on foot and who, being illiterate, can hardly be sent a form to fill in? The homeless? The beggars who basically live on the trains? These vulnerable groups represent a sizeable proportion of India's total population - does this affect the amount of money allocated to them? The scale and complexities were mind boggling. It was only a passing thought, however, until this evening when Lara, my landlord's daughter, arrived at my door accompanied by a government official – they had started the counting in Bhawanipatna and, as a legal alien, I was to be included. The form was in Oriya and the official didn't speak that much English but with Lara acting as translator we muddled our way through. They wanted the normal stuff – name, occupation, date of birth etc but also my "village".  An important part of an Indian's identity, your village links you back to the place your family hails from even if you, yourself, have never lived there.  Should I put Skirpenbeck - where my parents now live, London - where I've spent the last 20+ years or West Byfleet where I was born?  I plumped for London - it was easier to spell. They also wanted to know my father's, mother's and husband's name – her pen hovered hesitantly over the appropriate box when Lara told her I didn't have a husband – "No, not even a dead one". Dad's name was underlined by way of compensation. Apparently my answers have to be transcribed into Oriya before I sign it. I'm mildly interested in what my name looks like in Oriya although I'll have no idea what I'm actually signing of course but, whatever it says, I'm now officially in the system – my name and details, as well as Mum and Dad's but minus hubby's, will be winging their way into the bowels of  the Indian bureaucratic system. At sometime in the distant future when they announce the final tally - it's expected to be over billion … plus me.

Return to sender

In preparation for my return in July, I thought I would start sending some stuff home.  I have a 20kg (44 lbs) luggage allowance and excess baggage is whopping Rs1300 (£19) per kg.  A quick look round my flat told me that this would be a very expensive option – there’s that marble box Dillip gave me for Christmas, the carpets I bought in Sikkim, saris, tiffin boxes … the list goes on.  It turned out I didn’t have enough stuff to send as cargo by ship – they were asking how many tea chests I needed – which meant it would have to go air-freight – an even more expensive option than excess baggage.  So I decided to try Indian Post and last week found me in the post office with my first parcel. To begin with you have to get the terminology right. "Is parcel?", "Er yes" it certainly looked like one to me.  "Rs1700."  Somehow I managed to explain I thought that was a tad expensive for a 2.75kg parcel. "Is small packet?", "Well it can be", "Rs1300". We were coming down but I still wasn’t that happy.  I was pretty sure I couldn't call it a letter so I started to enquire about transport methods.  "Is go by ship?"  -  sometimes I'm better understood if I speak English the way they do - but he looked a bit confused so I did a rather good impression of a plane flying and saying No followed by one of waves whilst saying Yes.  "SAL – Rs750."  About a tenner - that sounded, if not reasonable, at least better so the deal was done and back at home I started on my second parcel and duly took this down to the post office yesterday.  "Small packet" accompanied by a quick impersonation of the sea and the second one was on its way … or so I thought.  Today the postman arrived with a large parcel under his arm. Had Mother sent me some final emergency supplies?  How much would they cost to send back?  But no, it was Parcel Number 1 being returned to sender.  Back in the post office they had no idea what the problem was and even Arjun, a colleague who had come to help, seemed confused. "I know the label has come off, all the tape has been ripped and the contents are falling out but that was done by the PO. Why did they do that?", "Yes, I do want to send it again but why didn’t it go the first time?"  As with most things in India the solution is to write a letter of complaint i.e. make it someone else's problem.  Now I love writing complaint letters but somehow standing in the hot post office with a blank piece of paper, kindly provided by them, I wasn't quite sure what to say apart from "Why is my parcel sitting in front of me and not in the UK?"  So now I have my parcel, a copy of my complaint letter confirming receipt of it and am expecting Parcel Number 2 to wing its way back shortly but still no idea how I'm going to get all my stuff home without bankrupting myself.  Suggestions welcome.

Bhawanipatna revisted

The longer you stay in a place the more it becomes normal and I sometimes struggle to think of things to write about my life in Bhawanipatna as opposed to my trips outside it. However, last week two people from the VSO office came down to take a look at what a rural placement in India is like in reality. Irene was from the VSO office in Kenya and Manish from the office in Delhi. In the same way as I used to look at London differently when I'd come back from a far-flung country, having someone visit me made me look at my life here from a different viewpoint. There are, of course, the constraints of living in a deeply conservative area - "Yes, I wear salwar kameez all the time because people seem to prefer it. In fact they've said they were relieved I didn't run around in tight, plunge neck T-shirts." I never did that in the UK - both the running and the tight T-shirts - but I'm a lazy dresser at the best of times and I really like wearing pyjamas every day. "No, I don't drink in Bhawanipatna. I know where to buy it but the people I know don't like it, so I give it a miss." I have to say, before I left I would have found it difficult to think of a day when I hadn't had a drink so one of the first things I discovered about myself, much to my relief, was that I wasn't a closet alcoholic and could go for weeks without a tipple. I've tried to be a little less assertive. Men, even older ones, visibly shrink if I suggest that maybe they haven't done or said what I might expect. They appear scared rather than angry and it does make you more inclined to fit in with their expectations of how women should behave. I haven't, however, given up my life-long hobby of assertively stating my dis-satisfaction to people in call centres which seems to generate a certain amount of awe amongst my colleagues who come in for the performance. "Well, I won't take No for an answer and I'll keep telling him until he gets the message. You should try it sometime." Living in a small town, people have more time and are more friendly and I realised, walking through town with Irene and Manish, just how many people knew my name. In the restaurant where we were having lunch, Irene seemed quite amused that two young women plonked themselves down in front of me and started chatting. "Are they friends of yours?" - "No, people here just do that – they seem to genuinely want to extend the hand of friendship." Occasionally I do get bored of telling people where I come from, that I eat rice and dhal just like them and that I'm not a missionary but on the whole I quite enjoy it and warm to their inquisitiveness. I'm off to the UK soon for a couple of weeks and, you know, I think I'm going to miss the place.

Light and laughter

One of the Hindu festivals I didn't comment on last year was Divali which is one of the major festivals all over India. It celebrates the homecoming of Rama after a 14-year exile in the forest and his victory over Ravana. In the legend, Rama's subjects welcomed him home by lighting rows (avali) of lamps (dĭpa). Of course the 20^th century has had an influence over the ceremony so, although you still get the traditional little terracotta pots filled with oil and to feed the burning wick, you also get a plethora of electric lights strewn all over the houses. Strangely, whilst I find this slightly tacky at Christmas in England, in India it seems sort of right and I was thrilled to see that my landlord, Surendra, had gone in for this with as much exuberance as he had last year. In the morning, piles of fireworks appeared on my roof-terrace and I was woken to bangs and laughter as the older children clearly thought they should practice lighting a few in advance. The main celebration started with the women of the household creating the rangoli. These intricate designs are made by pouring coloured powder to form the, usually floral, image and less detailed ones appear on the doorsteps of houses to celebrate almost any festival. For Divali, however, the all the stops are pulled out and they can take up to a couple of hours to create. Once the rangoli was completed, the family went into the back garden for a private puja (service) whilst I stood on the roof terrace and looked on. After dinner, the main fireworks display started. Health and safety officials have not reached Bhawanipatna (or I suspect any part of India) and the fireworks were let off in a completely haphazard manner both in the front yard and in the street with any child over the age of about 10 being deemed old enough to light them whilst the smaller ones peered in closely until they were whisked away just before the thing went off. Motorcyclists continued to career up and down the street and many only narrowly missed going up with the fireworks as they went off. All in all, it was an immense display of firecrackers (yards of which were laid up and down the street); small rockets; Catherine wheels (which were either laid on the ground or held in your hand); light fountains; bombs (which made a very loud noise but didn't' do much else); and hundreds of multi-coloured sparklers. In addition, similar displays were going on up and down the street and further away some households had gone for more aerial displays which you could also see. Yes, it was dangerous but it was also immense fun and I wonder if we've maybe sanitised the experience too much in the West with our stage-managed displays and if there mightn't be a middle way. Probably not, but I wouldn't have missed this experience for the world. Click here to see more pictures.

Saying hello

I've given up cycling to and from work – first the heat of the summer and now the monsoon-season coupled with the frequent black-outs at night made cycling an exhausting and slightly precarious activity. Cows that bed down in the street at sunset are not visible in the pitch black until you've crashed into them and it seemed all too easy to accidentally cycle into the open drains. So, for the past few months I've been walking and as a result I've made numerous new friends. OK – the average age of my new friends is about 8 and our conversations are a bit limited but on an average morning I'll be greeted by up to 20 children at various points on the way – some are pushed forward by their mothers whilst others come racing up to me shouting "Hi Susie-Auntie", or Foreign-Auntie or Didi (sister). Each encounter begins with shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries in English– "How are you? I am fine" (all said in one breath) and, whilst I've taught them "Good Morning", they've picked up "I love you" from someone else. We then move onto Indian greetings "Namaska" said whilst putting your hands together and the smaller ones, chivvied into action by their grandmothers, bend down to touch my feet – a sign of respect in these parts. Finally, we get to the all important question, "Camera achho?" (Have you got your camera?) and when I say "Han, aji camera achhe" (Yes, I have the camera today), there's a flurry of activity as they round up everyone else and jostle for position in the line-up. They never seem to lose interest in seeing themselves on the digital camera and, as I squat down so they can all get a good view, they point out themselves to the rest of the crowd who will have seen an almost identical picture a couple of days before. The younger children's lack of reserve has also encouraged the older ones who now give a shy "Good morning sister" as they cycle past on their way to school before speeding off to have a quick giggle with their less courageous friends. Recently, I have also been accompanied for a few minutes by two old ladies who, clearly dying for a chin-wag, join me on their way to the water pump each morning and, with their large metal pots cradled on their hips, proceed to tell me … well I'm not entirely sure what they're telling me but I'm obviously saying yes and no in the appropriate places most of the time and we part with a couple of namaskas – they to collect their daily water and me into the next throng of children. There are some downsides to my morning ritual. A while back I developed a skin rash and noticed about the same time that a lot of my new friends were also sporting similar exzema-like rashes. Had I given it to them or they to me? The chemist seemed sure it was worms and, whilst I was a bit dubious about his diagnosis, I dutifully took the worming tablets he prescribed and it cleared up so I guess he must have been right. Skin infections are, however, only a minor irritation compared to the pleasure the morning greetings give both me and my new friends.

Tying the knot

One of the main thrills of coming to India was the opportunity to get close to and understand another culture and, as a result, the last couple of days have been a highlight, if not the highlight, of my time here so far. Two of the boys who live in my household were up for their Threading Ceremony – Upanayanam – the Hindu equivalent of Christian confirmation but just for boys and only for the Brahmin caste. The preparations had started days before with the construction of bamboo scaffolding on my roof terrace to support the awning over the "dining hall" and slowly the walls in the courtyard were painted with the names of the boys – Lokhi and Rinko; the stage was built, covered with red mud and decorated with floor paintings and people started to arrive from far and wide. Yesterday morning it all kicked off and I was woken at 7am by the loud clanging of pots – the cooking had begun - and on opening my windows, I discovered an army of cooks, six gas burners had appeared and were warming huge cauldrons of food and there were mountains of vegetables in the process of being chopped up – and this was only for the lunch on the first day. One of the great things about the whole occasion was that it was a truly family affair – with women playing as big a part as the men albeit at different times. Mothers, aunts and grandmas started off the proceedings with a puja and then, preceded by the band, they made their way to the local temple with their offerings – coconuts, bananas and the like. On their return, mother and son stepped onto the stage where they were both daubed in an orange paste made from turmeric by various female relatives amongst much teasing and hilarity. Meanwhile, up on the roof terrace the cooking continued apace – there were now around 100 people to serve for supper. Preparations were also being made for the next day and I went to bed last night accompanied by a 4-foot cauldron of fried fish heads which had been put inside for safe-keeping!

This morning, mother and father joined their respective sons for a service that preceded the head-shaving. This seemed to be an extremely laid back affair – they stopped for a banana milkshake mid-flow and the priest thought nothing of answering his mobile phone during the ritual – "Sorry dear can't talk – in the middle of performing a Threading Ceremony". At head-shaving time, however, the family disappeaed and left the boys to the mercy of the barber and the photographers. Rinko seemed to take the cut-throat razor in his stride but Lokhi looked far from thrilled about losing his hair despite the auspicious occasion. Suitably bald, the boys were now back on stage for the main event – this time only accompanied by their fathers. The sacred thread is folded three times – each strand representing the goddesses of mind, word and deed - and is worn for the rest of their life - replaced once a year in separate ceremony. There were a few more rituals that followed but by this time I'd lost the thread so to speak. The final ceremony, however, brought the women back onto centre stage with offerings to the newly formed "saints" who took on the role of beggars. Following this we, by now around 500 of us, retired upstairs for lunch. I think it was a rare privilege to be part of such an occasion which, despite the numbers, felt very private and intimate at times. To see more pictures click here.

Reasons to be cheerful

Sometimes life in India can be very frustrating particularly when it comes to shopping. I've written down the word in Oriya for what I want but I just get a blank look when I ask for it; although most groceries are priced, as a "foreign-madam", I'm seen as fair game and some shopkeepers think nothing of inspecting the price and then adding 10-15% - sometimes I point out their "mistake" but sometimes I'm just too hot and bothered to care; Omfed, the milk store, only sells milk, butter and cream but on asking for each individually and pointing to the helpful pictures you just get "Na'in" ("Not have") leaving you wondering why they bothered opening in the first place. However, sometimes things take you completely by surprise. I decided last week that I wanted to buy a charpoy bed – basically a wooden frame with webbing wound round it – so I would have something other than my bed to lounge on. First you have to buy the frame and these are only available at the Weekly Market - which in fact occurs twice a week. The frames are made by the local tribal communities and are carried (sometimes miles) down the mountain to be sold – each stall has about three or four on offer. They all looked the same to me so I pointed randomly at the first one I saw and we agreed on a price – hand signals were used in the negotiation – you can always find a common language when it comes to money! However, having found a cycle-rickshaw to take it home, I was called back to the stall. The one I had chosen had a crack on the underside and that clearly wouldn't do. Personally I wouldn't have noticed or though to look but I was grateful, if surprised, by her concern that I didn't get the faulty one - not sure who she planned to sell it to though. Was I ripped off – well the hand-made frame cost me less than £5 (US$7.50) so, if I was, it didn't feel like it.

Yesterday my air-cooler packed up – no, I don't think it had anything to do with my assembly skills – so I went heavy-hearted back to the shop. From my UK experience I imagined I would have to wait days or even weeks until someone was able to come and fix it. But no – someone would accompany me home there and then and have a look at it. Unfortunately, on arrival there was a power cut – some things never change – so he wandered off and I assumed I would have to spend another hot and sweaty night without it. Wrong again - I'm not sure where he went in the intervening two hours but within minutes of the power returning he was back, had found the problem, replaced the faulty part and it was blowing out cold air again. Service or what!

Preparing for summer

For me preparing for summer used to involve fishing out my T-shirts, washing the windows so I could see out of them if the sun did actually come out and hoping it would get warmer. Well, the weather has certainly got warmer - it's currently about 90°F (32°C) – and it's still only spring. "This is cool compared to May", I keep being told. There are some nice things about the change in season though, you get more lassi (a yoghurt based drink) served in the office; mangos have come into season; and the quality and the variety of the vegetables in the market has improved significantly - I even found some spring onions last week. Despite the enhancements on the food front, I get the feeling that summer in Bhawanipatna is greeted with a sense of foreboding rather than relief or joy. The first thing you notice is that everyone is lining their windows with polystyrene sheets to prevent the heat of the sun coming through - I'm having some installed later this week. The other thing is the arrival of air-coolers for sale on every street corner. These are essentially boxes with leaves of straw inserted down three sides, a fan at the front and a tank of water. The idea is the water wets the straw which evaporates and then the fan forces out cold air which in turn expels the hot air out of the room. Having sweated my way through the last 10 nights – the ceiling fan just seemed to be blowing hot air at me – this evening I trotted down the road to buy one. Although they're clearly all the rage, they're not as simple as they're made out to be. The main problem is that Indians just don't seem go in for instructions. Having taken it out of the box (which was for something completely different so didn't even a sport a helpful picture), I spent most of this evening putting the thing together on the fly. First, I removed a random screw from the base – which I'll inevitably lose before I find out what it's for. I then poured a couple of buckets of water into the base - assuring myself there really wasn't anywhere else it could go - and in the process submerged something electrical that I think is the pump and sincerely hope is waterproof. Should I have removed the plastic strap that was holding it down? I didn't. Next I spent a good hour forcing an arbitrary array rubber tubes into the only places they seemed to fit and finally I switched on all the knobs – Pump, Main and Swing – heaven knows what Swing does - and ... well ... it hasn't blown up yet. It does, however, sound like a plane taking off so now I'm left with two options – hot or deaf. I have sneaking suspicion that I'll be choosing cool over quiet as we approach May unless of course it does blow up because that screw really was important or the plastic strap is to keep the electrical thing above the water not in it.

Happy Holi

One of the reasons I haven't written my blog recently is that I have been immersed in my Managing Rural Development course but I took the day off last week to celebrate Holi - one of the main Hindu festivals which honours Prahlad's miraculous escape from a fire due to his unshakable devotion to Lord Vishnu. The main event took place last Thursday when people come out onto the streets and daub each other with powdered paints which are traditionally made of medicinal herbs that are believed to chase away fevers and colds. Baijayant and his son, Soyem, arrived at my door at 8am armed with plastic bags of "colour" which they proceeded to daub all over my face and head - fortunately, I also had some so was able to return the favour. We then proceeded downstairs where my landlord, Surendra, was preparing a festival drink called thandai made from bananas, yoghurt and chopped nuts. I then "played holi" with the household children who definitely had one up on me as they also had water pistols filled with coloured water. Bizarrely, soon after breakfast most men decamp for the morning to have picnics with their male friends leaving their wives and other female relatives to celebrate on their own – and Baijayant was no exception - so I went across the road to his house where I took part in a more civilised paint daubing exercise with his wife, Geeta, his mother and his father. On my return home I walked into the exhuberant fray that had been taking place at my chez Surendra. Although in the more conservative places like Bhawanipatna, you rarely see women on the streets during the festival, it was clear that behind closed doors some women were determined not to miss out on the fun and all Surendra's female relatives were covered in paint of every colour under the sun although pink is the predominant holi colour. The proceedings end at mid-day on the dot – even though it's India, they're pretty punctual about this – and everyone wanders home to clean themselves up. It took about an hour to get the colour off my face and out of my hair and ears after I which I proceeded back to Geeta's for lunch. In Bhawanipatna, holi is the day you start eating pakhala bhaat, otherwise known as water rice, that is traditionally eaten in the summer months. To prepare the dish, water and yoghurt are added to cooked rice which makes it a much lighter affair than the boiled rice you normally get and I rather liked it. The meal ended with Orissa cakes which to be honest I could have lived without as they taste like fried stale pastry. Mid-afternoon, I wandered back home for a quick snooze – it's started to get quite hot and I can see myself becoming a fan of the afternoon nap in between the studying. Click here to see more pictures.

Bring on the bridegroom

According to Hindu astrology, now is an auspicious time to get married and as a result there are numerous weddings. Most people, of course, have their partners chosen for them by their parents although the happy couple do apparently get a chance to meet their intended and an opportunity, in theory, to say if they don't like the person chosen for them. As well as dictating the day you get married, astrology plays a big part in the selection of your wife or husband. Not only do you have a star sign based on the month you were born, you also have one based on the day you were born and both of yours have to match your future partner's for it be considered a good match. You also have to be from the same caste and your family has to be considered a "good" one - the family history is studied and discussed at length. Unfortunately I don't know anyone who is getting married so I haven't been invited to any weddings. However, India is a place where life is lived on the street so you don't actually have to be invited to enjoy the fun. I haven't seen a bride – I think they're kept under wraps at home - but the groom is paraded through the streets preceded by a live brass band (amplified by numerous speakers tied to a cycle-rickshaw) and a gang of his male friends and relatives carrying large electric lanterns. There are also numerous fireworks set off in amongst the procession and, from what I can work out, at the venue itself. If there are, say, three weddings going on the near vicinity as there are tonight, you really do feel as if you're in the middle of a party and as we're currently half way through a scheduled three-day power cut it provides ample entertainment to while away the dark evenings – the music does, however, go on until about 3am but, as I'm not going to work at the moment because there's no power, I can always sleep in tomorrow. Click here to see more photos.

Acquiring a drawer

It has taken me a long time to realise what exactly was missing in my flat but finally it dawned me – there are no drawers. For storage you get deep stone shelves but I had nowhere to put all those small things that you would normally shove in a drawer. I had wanted to buy a wooden dining table but this had proved impossible to procure in Bhawanipatna. To be fair tables aren't in great demand here as people eat their meals sitting on the floor. You do, however, see computer tables and as these sometimes come with a drawer I decided to resume my search. The first hurdle was finding a furniture shop. You can buy plastic chairs and mattresses on almost every street corner but, it appeared, nothing else in the way of furniture. As it turns out, the furniture shops are all located in the same street which is on the edge of town and, in Bhawanipatna, they are more akin to mini warehouses than shops. With tables, chairs, wardrobes etc all stacked higgledy piggledy floor to ceiling, you have to squeeze between the gaps and crane your neck until you spot something that might be what you want - only it's upside down and five feet above you. I finally found one that looked suitable and a boy was summoned to dismantle the "display" so I could look at it more closely. When it was finally laid down in front of me, I realised it didn't have a drawer – sh*t! This, however, didn't turn out to be a problem – one could be added and they would deliver it to my home at exactly 1 o'clock the next day. So today, I rushed home early to await its arrival. I've been here long enough and I really should have known better. One o'clock came and went, as did 2 o'clock and at 3 o'clock I made my way back to the shop to find my table sitting upside down in the street – the drawer had been added but they still had to re-attach the cupboard door and this would, apparently, take two hours to complete. I guess he didn't appreciate that I am an expert at building flat-pack furniture and could have constructed the whole ensemble in less than two hours. Back at the flat, I cleaned everything until it shone and then re-arranged all the cupboards - several times - but when at 6 o'clock the table still hadn't arrived I started to make my way back to the shop – more bored than frustrated to be honest. I hadn't gone very far, however, when I spotted a cycle-rickshaw approaching with a trailer tied precariously on the back on top of which was ... you guessed it ... the table complete with drawer. Whilst re-arranging my cupboards I have, of course, found far more small things than will actually fit in the drawer – but hey I also got a cupboard with a door that took over two hours to screw on.

Bhawanipatna Fair

After my rather short visit to the textile fair in Koraput, I had been really looking forward to the Bhawanipatna one and it was ... well ... fantastic. It was held in the Stadium which is a stone's throw from where I live – in fact so close I can hear the entertainment (rather monotonous speeches interspersed with Indian classical music) loud and clear as I type this. The official entrance was some distance away but, along with everyone else from our part of town, I squeezed through the gap in a loosely chained gate under the watchful eye of the priests in the temple opposite. Once inside, it was remarkably similar to an English agricultural show - maybe not quite the Great Yorkshire Show but certainly a large district one. You could buy anything from a tractor to a trinket and a lot else in between; they also had displays of the latest agricultural techniques and produce although there didn't appear to be any show jumping or livestock judging. It all had an Indian flavour of course. For starters it takes place at night. I think some things go on during the day but the fun doesn't start much before 6pm. On the stalls side, instead of laces and linens you could buy tribal textiles and saris; there was no WI stand but the local branch of the Lions were out in force; and instead of the hotdogs and burgers you could feast on samosas, dhosas, curry and rice all served on a leaf plate. There was even a Members Area which for some reason was called the Officers and Ladies Club. And of course, like any such event, you find things that you've never heard of or seen before but wonder how you ever managed to exist without. After two visits on successive evenings, I've come home with a jar of forest honey, a bottle of amla juice, two saris and a battery operated lamp. The pièce de résistance, however, is the portable giza boiler. The box – needless to say there are no instructions – says it will produce 3 litres of boiling water a minute and you've no idea how much I'm looking forward to being able to wash with hot rather than cold water. Unfortunately on my return home we had another power cut so, whilst the battery operated lamp came into its own immediately, I haven't been able to test out the boiler but as soon as the lights flicker back on I'll be producing hot water like it's going out of fashion – or in India coming into fashion far too slowly for my liking. Click here for more pictures.

Christmas drinks

Orissa isn't a dry state but drinking is very much frowned upon in Bhawanipatna. I've never hidden the fact that in the UK I drink alcohol saying that most people do - including women. I have also said that part of the pleasure is meeting with friends and drinking with them – it's not the same drinking on your own – and I wasn't really interested in locating the local bottle shop. People here are very concerned that I miss my lifestyle in England and at times I dreaded someone buying some for me and then watching me consume it whilst they sipped their water - I couldn't think of anything worse. I have also been asked a lot of questions, recently, about what Christmas is like in England and in amongst describing a Christmas tree, introducing them to the concept of Santa Claus and trying to explain exactly what a mince pie is, I have mentioned that there a lot of parties which involve standing around, eating peanuts and drinking. So I really shouldn't have been quite so surprised when I opened my door this evening to find two very sheepish-looking Indian friends asking if they could come in. As the first withdrew a bottle of whisky from under his jumper, the other explained that, as I was leaving for my holidays on Monday, they thought we should have a Christmas party before I left. The door was bolted, the shutters locked and, while I rustled up a bowl of Bombay mix, the bottle was ceremoniously opened and we sat down round my formica table. They thought they should stand but I explained that for a small party it was perfectly acceptable to sit. A very small shot was then poured into each glass which was filled to the top with water and we toasted Christmas, England and whisky. They were not impressed with my taste in music – but then not many people are - so I switched it off and we listened to the Indian music blaring out from the garden next door. Once I'd recovered from the shock, the whisky kicked in and I started to relax and feel very touched by their gesture. The only problem now is how to get rid of the evidence. I think I'm going to have to pack it in my suitcase and take it to Ranchi where a stray whisky bottle will, hopefully, cause less of a stir.

Learning to make roti

As well as rice, roti is another staple in Indian cuisine. It's a bit like naan bread but much thinner and not as large. You get served 3 or 4 pieces with your meal instead of, or sometimes in addition to, your rice. Dillip asked if I would like his wife to teach me how to make them as I'd commented on how good hers were and also because you can't buy them in the shops – they're always made at home. So last night, after work, I popped upstairs to his house and had my first Indian cookery lesson. The basic recipe is flour mixed with salt and water to make a dryish dough – a bit like pastry but there's no butter in it. You then knead the dough as you would any other bread – in India this is done in the bowl rather than on the counter because it is considered unsavoury to touch food with your left hand and kneading with one hand is easier in a bowl. All that was quite easy – I think it will take a couple of times to get the consistency exactly right but not difficult in theory. You then divide the dough into fish-cake sized patties – again using one hand but in the privacy of my own home I imagine I'll probably use both – and you then roll the patties into rounds and this is where a lot of practice will be required. On a round roti-sized wooden board, the aim is create perfect circles out of the patties with a rolling pin – not only do they have to be perfect circles but they have to be of an even thickness – there's no cutting off the bits round the edges as you would with pastry. Somehow, you also have to majically turn the dough in the process of rolling it rather than manually shifting it round. There was much mirth at my square or otherwise irregularly shaped rotis and my need to manually turn the dough in between rolling. Having made your perfect circles – or not – you then dry fry them on the hob – squashing down any air bubbles that might appear. You use a special cast-iron pan for this – the name of which escapes me – but it's a bit like a frying pan without the sides. When it is cooked it looks a bit like a thick pancake and you then transfer it to a round griddle which you hold over the heat. At this point you find out whether your rolling skills are up to par – if the roti is round and even, the middle of it will separate and top half will fill with air for about 30 seconds; you then toss your roti – pancake style – and the other side rises and your creation ends up nice and light. However, if you haven't got it right it won't rise at all – it's too thick; will only produce a few disjointed bubbles – you haven't rolled it evenly enough; or split at one side – it's not round enough. Most Indian housewives can make dozens of perfect rotis in about 20 minutes – it took me about half an hour to make 5 none of which came anywhere near perfection. So I'm off down to the market tomorrow to buy the requisite pan, griddle and roti board as I think I'll need fair amount of practice before I can offer my creations to any of my neighbours. They will off course need curry to go with them but that's another lesson for another day.

Two months in

Although it doesn't feel like it, I've now been in Bhawanipatna for eight weeks. I still regularly ride side-saddle on the back of motorbikes but am now far less scared and this evening I barely flinched as the bike, driven by the 14-year old Drubo, squeezed between an on-coming tractor and the open drain with only millimetres to spare. It is also interesting to note that what I saw as exiting and different when I first arrived here is now almost every-day. On my 15-minute walk to work (along roads that have seen tarmac at some point but have now reverted to dirt tracks), I pass by people washing themselves, their clothes and their crockery at the local water pump without a second glance; and I amble un-seeing through traffic jams that comprise seven bullock-carts meeting a throng of children going to school – three or four to a bike. It's still quite beautiful – romantic even – but at the same time feels quite normal.
The work front has picked up a bit although there are still hours, sometimes whole days, of inactivity due to the power cuts. I have spent my time trying to learn a bit more Oriyan vocabulary and can now understand about 1 in 100 words spoken by the average 3-year old which is a start at least. I can also count to 100 - no mean feat in Oriya. Unlike European languages, where once you get to 20 you're kind of on the home straight, each number, if not unique, certainly doesn't' follow a consistent pattern so you have to learn each and every one. However, it comes in useful in the market when I can now look horrified when the vendor tries to charge me 26 rupees (chhabisi) for a kilo of tomatoes when I know they should only cost 16 (sohola) rather than blindly handing over some cash and then counting the change to see how much I've been charged.
Additions to my flat include a large wall painting/poster – my landlord had bought so many for his house he got one free and said I could choose a picture for my room. It's about seven feet wide and three feet high and features a group of women collecting water – the least chocolate-boxy one in the catalogue which I've grown to rather like. I've also bought a blender and am becoming and expert at making lassi (a yoghurt based drink) and concocting fruit-juice combinations – there's a glut of custard apples at the moment which go rather nicely with bananas. I'm still being fed by my neighbours - sometimes I eat in their homes (a small teaspoon is now provided probably to minimise the mess I create if left to eat with my hand alone) or sometimes a tiffin box is delivered to my door. I prefer the tiffin box - not because I'm unsociable but because the portions you get given at someone's house are so enormous my stomach seizes up at the thought of all that food going into it. At least when the food is delivered to me at home, I can eat it over two or three days and don't run the risk of offending my hosts because, having struggled through the first portion, I refuse seconds.
So, "Yes", I'm still really enjoying myself and have no desire to return to recession-hit Britain at the moment even for the opportunity to use a sit-down loo – probably the Western "luxury" I miss the most.

Christmas has come early

Well not exactly but it feels like it. The streets are festooned with avenues of lights (some of which look remarkably like Santa on his sleigh) and the town is emptying out as people take their families away on holiday. The reason for all this activity is that it's Dushera – one of India's main festivals that celebrates the three-eyed, ten-armed goddess of power who is known as Durga in Orissa. Several temporary temples have been erected (which are as large as the permanent ones) and for the past three days there have been queues of people – one for men and one women – lining up for the opportunity to pray in front of the fantastically decorated statues of the goddess. The statues are made of clay and are intricately painted and decorated with jewels – real ones. At the end of the festivities the jewels will be returned to the bank vaults and the statues floated in the local river.
At home and in the office, because Durga is the goddess of power, everything that relates to or uses power is blessed. There was a lovely little puja (service) at our office where all the motorcycles were lined up in a row and, as prayers were said, they were daubed in red paint, had incense waved in front of them and flowers and small pieces of coconut scattered over them. Everyone then came inside where the same service was carried out for the benefit of the computer and the photocopier. Not quite so nice is the fact that they still sacrifice animals in Bhawanipatna – a practice the authorities are trying to stamp out. Not being squeamish, I thought I might go and have a look but having seen a movie of the ritual on someone's mobile phone, I'm glad I didn't pursue the idea. Naively I had thought they would slit the goat's throat and effect a clean death but no, they went for an Anne Boleyn-style execution swinging the axe into the petrified animal several times before it's head was eventually severed. I only saw the one goat sacrificed but it was clear that others were also meeting their untimely deaths up and down the street. On a less gory note, Dushera is also a time when women traditionally go home to visit their mothers so whilst Baiyajant's wife, Gita, has gone to see hers, his two sisters and their respective children are visiting him and theirs. On the down-side the women have to fast for a day to ensure their fathers' and brothers' well-being; on the up-side they expect their brothers to buy them at least one, if not two or three, new saris.
I'm glad I stayed in Bhawanipatna for the festival rather than going to the larger towns where I gather the lights and entertainment are more spectacular. I got see and be part of the more intimate side of Dushera rather than just being a spectator and I'll know for next year not to venture down the street where the animals are sacrificed.

Getting connected

As the internet connection I’d bought in Delhi didn’t work in Bhawanipatna, I decided to swap it for one provided by BSNL - the national telecoms provider. First stop was the BSNL exchange where they have to confirm it will work on your computer. Next, we trucked down to the shop to purchase the required gizmo. It wasn’t a shop exactly but a collection of offices and, a bit like playing a computer game, you had to clear various levels before you’re allowed to make your purchase. You successfully complete Level 1 only to find yourself back there because you’ve made a mistake at Level 2. It took numerous attempts to successfully complete Levels 1 and 2 - I needed to fill out a form but they didn't have any in stock so I should try another time; the photo didn't look like me - could I come back with a better one; the man at Level 2 isn’t in today - come back tomorrow; and so it went on. Then, having finally made it to Level 3, I was told that, because I was a foreigner, I should have applied in my employer's name and not my own.
By now I was the highest scoring player at Levels 1-3 so, armed with a fresh set of forms, getting to Level 4 was a breeze. Here all the paperwork was laboriously copied out by hand and then two further pages of carefully hand-written text were created and everything was placed in a beige folder. Assuming we were done, I got up to leave. Not a bit of it - I was told to sit back down while all the pages were meticulously written out again and placed in a red folder and then there was the copy for the grey folder and then the yellow. To keep myself sane during the 2½ hour process, I recited The Jumblies to myself. Somehow, the thought of creatures with green heads and blue hands sailing across oceans in a sieve seemed infinitely less surreal than what was going on in front of me. Finally, I accompanied the orange folder to Level 5 where exactly the same information was entered onto the “shop’s” only computer. It very quickly became clear that the computer wasn't working but I sat there for further 1½ hours until everybody else had come to the same conclusion. The Jumblies set sail again several times.
The next day - 17 days after I'd first started - I was finally allowed to buy the required gizmo. However, as I sit here in my flat posting my blogs and listening to latest BBC Radio 4 podcast, I think, in the end, it was probably all worth it. As they say, "All things come to those who wait" … eventually.

Happy Birthday Lord Krishna

Krishna is a re-incarnation of the protector god, Vishnu, and today is his birthday. On the way back from work this evening I bumped into my neighbour, Gita, who invited me to join her for the celebrations. First we went to our local temple which is dedicated to the monkey god, Hanuman. It's a modest affair with just enough room for the priest to get in alongside the statue of Hanuman. We took off our shoes and joined the small congregation standing in the street outside. Everyone was dressed up in their best saris and, amongst the gold and silk, I felt quite conspicuous by my drabness. There seemed to be an order of service – bells were rung and the priest, dressed in a faded orange sarong, waved a small, round candelabra in front of Hanuman who was swathed in garlands of flowers for the occasion. The candelabra was then passed amongst us and you waved your hand through the flames and then over your head in what I assume was a blessing. We were then given slices of banana and cubes of coconut and, having eaten them, it was all over and we proceeded down the road to the Krishna temple. Here you passed your offering – a basket or plastic bag of coconuts, bananas and other fruit – through a hatch in the wall where it was blessed by the priests and handed back. To be honest it was a bit of a scrum and my experience of fighting my way onto a Northern Line tube at rush-hour certainly came in handy. After that we hung around on a street corner chatting with Gita's friends and trying to stop the kids from throwing stones at the cows who by now had bedded down in the street for the night. It was a great evening which has certainly made me feel, if not an integral part of the local community, at least accepted by them.

My first week at work

To be honest I've spent a lot of time kitting out my flat and discovering what you can get here (coffee and cornflakes) and what you can't (dishcloths and deodorant). Everyone seems keen to accompany me on my shopping expeditions (more knuckle-whitening rides sitting side-saddle on the back of a motorbike) but with their help I seem to have found most of what I need.

Life at work is ... well ... slower than I'm used to. I get to work about 10am and switch on the computer - only to switch it off again shortly afterwards as the lights start to flicker and the fans grind to a halt. With nothing else to do, I sit and chat to the numerous people who just seem to drop by or I listen to their conversations – trying and failing to understand what they are saying. The electricity might then come back on - or there again it might not - so I fill my mornings chatting (or sometimes just sitting) and only occasionally am I interrupted by a bit of work. Lunch comprises an enormous quantity of rice and two or three portions of curry - fish, dhal, vegetables etc - served on a metal dish. Drubo, a14-year old boy who helps out, is an excellent cook so, by the time it arrives at 2 o'clock, I'm salivating at the thought of his next creation. The afternoon is much the same as the morning and about 6pm I stroll home wondering if I'll get an invitation to supper from either Surendra or Baiyajant tonight or whether I'll have to be really adventurous and cook for myself. Don't get me wrong, I like the slower pace of life but I think I'm going to have to think of something constructive to do when there's no electricity. Suggestions welcome.