Letters from India 2: Calcutta, Puri and Rajasthan.

Hope you are both well. I’m writing from the infamous city of Calcutta. The name Calcutta instantly conjures a vision of overcrowding and squalor, a veritable Black Hole. I’m intrigued to find out whether it deserves this ghastly reputation.

 It’s just about impossible to try and convey what Calcutta is like. For a start I was only there for 6 days, so I only saw one very small part of the city that some say is larger than London and has a population of at least 8 million (some figure it to be closer to 12 million). My immediate impression is that it is a city of incongruities. Most Western travellers, including myself, stay at the Salvation Army Red Shield Hostel! With such a large population of destitute, it immediately struck me as odd that an institution like the S.A. catered to the by no means deprived Westerner. I was grateful as it’s about the only cheap and clean place in Calcutta. The hostel is run by a Scots lady who bustles about in a starched white uniform keeping a matriarchal eye over all. The rent is inclusive of breakfast, so in the morning all the travellers are served with pots of tea, eggs and piles of toast and ham. It brings to mind the days of the Raj, though in a somewhat degenerated form.

As soon as you step forth from this rather bizarre oasis, you are assailed by rickshaw drivers, people wanting to sell you things, buy watches cameras etc., or change money on the black market. It certainly is a crowded city. Early morning and evening time makes the London rush hour seem very tame. You would not believe how many people can be packed on the buses and trams, often with nearly as many hanging onto the outside as inside.

It is very much a British built city. The area around the hostel is endowed with wide streets and pavements, and large park areas (which are well maintained) so it does not appear as squalid as I had feared. Though I suppose that this area is equivalent to the West End f London, I’ve yet to visit the ‘Brixton’ area. Even here, though there are many people who spend their whole life on the street – sleeping, washing, cooking and eating, apparently oblivious to the constant stream of passerby’s. You can get almost anything on the street without having to step into a shop or restaurant – quench your thirst, satisfy your appetite, have a haircut and shave, have your shoes polished and buy almost anything. It’s an adventure to step out onto the streets of Calcutta.

Amongst all this very Indian city is still an atmosphere of colonial days. Splendid opulent buildings like Victoria Memorial. Set in a beautiful formal garden this white marble building has been accused of being a British attempt at building a Taj Mahal. A strange composite of Mughal and classical European architecture, decorated with baroque style statues it is the epitome of British colonial ostentatiousness. Beneath a statue of a portly Queen Victoria seated on a throne, a group of Brahmins, dressed in spotless white dhotis, are chanting verses from the Vedic scriptures.

It is just prior to the monsoon season and it is consequently the hottest part of the year. It is more or less impossible to do anything in the middle of the day, especially as Calcutta seems very humid as well. So I have decided to leave Calcutta and am now in Puri, a 12 hour journey south on the coast. It is one of the 4 holiest places in all of India, and at the end of the month is one of the most important festivals  – the festival of cars. Images of Jagannath (Lord of the Universe) are hauled on huge carts through the streets. We derive our word juggernaut from this ceremony. The temple of Jagannath is truly splendid. Unfortunately, there is no entrance for non-Hindus. I have a room in a house that literally is on the beach. A constant sea breeze makes the otherwise stifling midday temperatures more stifling. I expect to stay here until after the festival which is on 23 June.

See you whenever dharma dictates
Lots of love your prodigal son

You will have to excuse the writing as where I am staying at the moment has a distinct lack of furniture. Having only the floor to sit on makes writing a little awkward, but I am sure that you will appreciate a somewhat scrawled letter rather than no communication at all. Anyway to bring you up to date with my travels. From Calcutta a short journey by train (i.e. short for India – merely 12 hours) to Puri which is where I am still. I have been here for almost 2 months, partly because Puri is one of those places where time slows down and the days drift by and it is a good place to stay and also because I have been immobilised for a while with some strange infection in my knee. I won’t bore you with the details, except that it is nearly healed now.

I am staying in this incredible house that was once obviously very grand but is now somewhat dilapidated. It is situated literally on the beach – sand drifts in the back door as well as the front. The sea is less than 100 yards away. While I was somewhat incapacitated, I spent many hours sitting on the veranda just looking at the ever changing patterns of sea and sky. Now it is the beginning of monsoon season. There are some incredible cloud formations that are rapidly and constantly changing. Puri seems like a good place to spend the monsoon season, as most of the rain blows overhead and falls inland.

Early morning watching the fishermen in their roughly hewn wooden boats fighting their way through the turbulent surf out to sea. Returning midday or early afternoon, once again having to struggle through the surf, often capsizing. Many people congregate on the beach at this time waiting to buy the catch. The rest of the day the fishermen have nets to mend and boats to repair. It is a hard life I think. It’s strange half the population  seem to have to work so hard, but many Indians have nothing to do and spend their days in chai shops or just lying around doing absolutely nothing. If they manage to get a little money maybe smoking some ganja (marijuana). There is even a government shop here in Puri for buying grass. I suppose that it’s not so different in the West, it’s just more obviously noticeable in this part of the world, where everything is out in the open and not hidden behind closed doors. Privacy, which is so important to us Westerners is quite an alien concept to many Indians.

Puri being one of the four most holy cities in India, and also being located on one of the finest stretches of beach is a very popular resort, as you can combine a holiday and a pilgrimage. Visiting holy sites is still very important for a majority of Hindus. The Maharajas and wealthy Indians have built some incredible houses here. Some of them constructed like miniature palaces and decorated with carvings of dragons, horses and gods. There is one creature that many people have painted on their wall that has the head of a peacock, the body of a bullock, a snake for a tail, a human arm an elephant’s leg, a lion’s leg and a cow’s leg. Many of these places are also falling into disrepair, giving the place a sort of Daliesque atmosphere (a totally inadequate description, but the best I could come up with).

The whole town revolves around the temple of Jagannath – Lord of the Universe. Unfortunately, non-Hindus are not allowed inside. There is in the region of 6,000 people employed to perform the various functions and rituals of the temple. In the kitchen, which I’ve heard is the largest in the world, there are more than 400 brahmins working to prepare 52 different food items that are offered to Jagannath. 36 of these items are of course sweets. India is a nation with a very sweet tooth (you would not believe some of the sweets all saturated in sugar)

Once a year the images of Jagannath, his brother and sister are dragged in massive carts (about 14 metres high and 10 metres square) to another temple about 2 km away. It is a very strange spectacle – these 3 vast wooden constructions (we derive our word juggernaut from Jagannath) being hauled down the main street in Puri. These days it seems as if the police do most of the pulling (a job I would not relish as it is very hot at this time) whilst the Brahmin priests ride on board. Until the ‘sensible’ British colonials stopped the practice many people used to throw themselves under the wheels as a sacrifice. After a seven day holiday the images are hauled back – a repeat performance. Space seems to be running out. I’m not sure what I’m going to do (as usual). It is possible that I will stay in Puri for the monsoon season or possibly go to Rajasthan in a couple of weeks

The house where I stayed in Puri

Cooking was quite basic as we were living on very little money.

The Indian ‘caretaker’ and a German traveller, who also stayed here, enjoy a chillum.

A print of Jagannath (on the right) with his brother Balbhadra (left) and sister Subhadra (centre), that I bought in Puri, and has somehow survived. It was originally in a frame. These prints are commonplace and are bought by pilgrims and devotees and often installed in their domestic shrines.

One of the three chariots used to transport the images of Jagannath, Balbhadra and Subhadra. Our word ‘juggernaut’ is derived from Jagannath

At the moment I’m staying for a few days in a village in the Thar Desert. Yet another total change of environment. If I climb to the roof of the house where I am staying, one can see that you’re surrounded on all sides by a vast expanse of emptiness. For the most part the desert is flat with a few scrubby thorns and succulents somehow managing to survive in the hard sunbaked ground. Though there are areas of ‘Sahara type desert’ where the sand dunes appear totally devoid of life. In a strange sort of way it’s reminiscent of being in the North Sea, though the village is much more harmonious in its desert environment than the rigs could ever be in the North Sea.

The pristine huts (though huts is not an adequate word, maybe dwelling would be more apt for the rooms clustered around the well swept walled courtyard) of the villagers are newly adorned with a fresh coat of mud in preparation for the festival of Diwali – a sort of combination of Christmas and New Year. I sit in the shade of the veranda of one of the few houses built of stone and mortar, watching the life of the village (much better than the TV!). A group of long horned cattle huddle in the shade of a lone tree. A black crow (a most ubiquitous bird – so far I have not been to a single place where their harsh cries cannot be heard) perches nonchalantly on the head of an unperturbable cow flies off when a woman approaches to milk. A group of women walk by on the way to the well with large clay pots balanced on their heads – very good for their posture. Their vividly coloured dresses contrasting strikingly with the stark buff of the desert and mud dwellings. Some have their veils pulled across their faces, though the practice of purdah is rapidly disappearing even in the more remote villages. On their upper arms many of the women wear bangles of increasing size, often reaching from the elbow almost up to the shoulder. I think originally they would’ve been ivory, but I strongly suspect that many are plastic these days. Heavy silver anklets, nose and earrings are also popular. In contrast men’s dress seems almost austere, though many sport brightly coloured turbans and luxuriant moustaches. One man I saw had a most incredible moustache that was curled 4 or 5 times in a spiral fashion which reached level with the bridge of his nose.

The Rajputs were an incredibly warlike race, when they were not fighting off an outside invader, they were busy fighting amongst themselves. Consequently, many of the towns of Rajasthan are walled and dominated by huge forts that make the castles of Wales look like small country cottages. The fort of Jaisalmer seems to almost grow from the rocky hill on which it is built, commanding a view over the desolate expanse of the desert. The small town nestles beneath its walls. One wonders why there is a town here at all in such a remote spot. A local verse runs “A horse of wood, legs of stone, a frame of iron, will get you to Jaisalmer alone – though the ‘frame of iron’ these days has the guise of an Indian train. Apparently it used to be on a major trade route from the Middle East, but since the port of Bombay was built it has become somewhat isolated. Jaisalmer has some of the most beautiful buildings I have ever come across. The town and the fort are built from yellow sandstone, and it is often referred to as the Golden City. (Jaipur, the capital of Rajasthan, is known as the Pink Cityas the old part is mostly constructed from red sandstone). There are several large houses called havelis, which are adorned with some of the most exquisite carvings. Unlike much Indian sculpture the motif is almost entirely geometric designs and does not figure images from mythology, processions of elephants, dancing girls etc., that ornament the temples and palaces further south. Intricately carved balconies and lattice windows so delicately carved that they seem to have an almost lace like quality. It is not only the havelis, but also many of the other houses in the town are richly decorated.

Having never ridden a camel before, while I was in Jaisalmer I made a half day trek into the desert. Whilst I am on the subject of camels, I found it very incongruous to see these dignified beasts used to pull carts in the city. When you mount, the camel raises its front legs first and you find yourself tilted forward at a quite disconcerting angle and then with an abrupt jerk it is up on all fours. Ship of the desert is a most apt name as the camel’s strange lolloping gait makes you sway almost like being in a boat in a rolling sea. When they run you bounce up and down more than a proverbial yoyo. I am quite glad that I decided only to go out for half a day as it was really uncomfortable, for a novice anyway, and I was quite sore by the end of the trip.

I am not exactly certain of my future plans, but I hope to go to Rishikesh to an ashram that does a 3 month course that combines the practice of yoga with the study of some Hindu philosophy.

By the way I eventually managed to lay my hands on a copy of Midnight’s Children. I enjoyed reading it, but I don’t know if I would classify it as the masterpiece it is acclaimed to be. I think I preferred Heat and Dust by Ruth P.J., which won the same prize in 1975