19 March 2007

This morning, as has become my habit, I am early to rise and by 5.30am I am taking a morning stroll through the dusty roads of Kolerganj village, enjoying the long route towards the Ganges River. Soon enough I start to miss my toothbrush.

I walk behind two men having a conversation – one has both hands locked behind his back and is holding a bright red toothbrush. Isn’t that odd? Two minutes later I spot a young woman at the door of her house, brushing her teeth while observing the world go by. Shortly, another man is coming from the opposite direction, vigorously scrubbing away at his teeth – only to stop and stare when he passes me, totally unselfconscious despite the white foam pouring down the corners of his mouth. I understand that brushing teeth is not a private thing in India. In fact, tooth-brushing is a serious matter, taking up the best part of an hour in the morning, which can coincide with reading the newspaper on the doorstep of your house. Oral hygiene standards to be commended!

Bathing is not a private thing for that matter, either. In rural India, running-water and private bath-rooms are something of a luxury. I observe a group of children and their mothers taking a bath, fully-clad, beside a hand-operated water-pump – several are scattered around the villages to draw water from deep wells.

Alternatively, municipal taps run water at specific times of the day. It is common to sight to see women waiting by a tap when the time is approaching, armed with plastic bottles of all shapes and sizes. The other day I witnessed an argument over whose turn it was! Today, two ladies are happily doing their laundry undisturbed.

I reach the Ganges River and sit on its bank of white sand with silver sparkly bits, savouring the peaceful morning before the heat begins to set in at around 7.00am. I observe the flow of men and women as they come and go constantly, to bathe alongside the buffaloes. This is the favourite bathing place for most – not only is it an abundance of flowing cool water, but the Ganges is also considered the holiest of rivers in India, thus purifying the soul as well as the body.

I follow suit and after touching some water to my head respectfully, I walk straight in. The experience of being in the water fully clothed is rather weird, although it is great to be so spontaneous and not having to worry about swim-wear or a towel. Like everyone else, I simply walk home with my wet clothes stuck to my body!

21 March 2007

A repetitive knocking sound coming from various houses haunts my morning walk. A woman standing outside one house understands my puzzled expression and invites me in to see – a wooden hand-loom.

I begin a hand-loom hunt and discover some factories built from palm fronds housing up to eight looms, which are operated during the entire hours of daylight. It appears to be the main production business of the area. A sari can take several hours to make, then it must be dyed, washed, hung, and stretched, and it can cost anything from Rs180 to Rs1800 (Lm1.40-Lm14), depending on the intricacy of the design.

23 March 2007

Every day, Mira, my neighbour, collects cow-dung from the streets, then proceeds to plaster it to the walls of her house in neat, round, hand-printed pasties. Each day she removes the dry ones, collects them in a heap, and proceeds to plaster a fresh collection of “pooh-pasties”. Part of her livelihood depends on this “pooh-pasty” production, since this is the main cooking fuel used in the area.

Actually, Mira’s house is made from a mixture of cow-dung and mud, and the result is a surprisingly well-polished sturdy hut and flooring. Sitting on her doorstep, drinking a cup of chai while I watch her work, occasionally exchanging smiles and a few hand gestures, I can barely believe how clean a substance cow-dung appears to be – it does not even smell bad!

Now I know why Indians mindlessly discard anything from banana skins to newspapers on the ground – because Miss Cow will amble down the street and eat it all up! Most of the waste produced in rural areas is organic, and it seems to me that the cow constitutes the centuries-old Indian method of recycling.

25 March 2007

Bus-roof rides are fun! People are overflowing out of the bus windows, so I follow a bunch of people up the ladder at the back of the bus onto the roof. A roof-ride is definitely a life-risking experience, as a sudden braking could send you flying, not to mention the dangerously low intricate entanglements of electric wires crossing the roads, and tree-branches seemingly out for a game of cricket.

Have I mentioned that the driving is insane? I must insist! We overtake a jeep which is overtaking a cycle-rickshaw so that the on-coming traffic must veer off the road to avoid being rammed! I am amused to spot three men on a bicycle, who stop at the road-side to let us pass. Meanwhile a dare-devil motorbike whizzes past us – a man with a woman passenger sitting side-saddle, as they do.

As we speed along we overtake several bicycles carrying heavy loads of vegetables, straw or kerosene cans tied in a massive bundle balanced precariously on the back. We pass a buffalo-cart carrying huge logs but I am impressed by a flat-back cycle-cart carrying a large quantity of bricks, powered by a skinny little fellow!

As we drive past village after village, each consisting of 30 or so mud-huts hidden in the jungle, I watch the women and get an impression in my mind of ants who can carry 50 times their own weight. These ladies carry on their heads incredible quantities of fire-wood, large water-jugs, vegetable baskets and straw – all done in a very elegant cat-walk style. Certainly it appears that there is a hidden strength in these deceivingly small, thin people

Suddenly the road is strewn with wheat for several metres. Smart idea! The traffic acts as a grinder to force the grains out! Further down the road, several coconut husks are strewn in a similar manner. This one I cannot figure out. I ask the man beside me, struggling in my poor Bengali. Most locals cannot even speak Hindi, so I am surprised when in English he replies: “Mattress stuffing!”

I notice a blockade ahead – the road is barricaded with a large, wooden cart with ear-piercing Bollywood music blaring from it and a bunch of boys dancing frantically around it. A man with a 101 Dalmatians T-shirt (no inhibitions!) is leading the gang which is demanding baksheesh (a bribe) from the vehicles in order to allow them through – but of course our bus-driver takes no heed and drives on at the same speed, forcing them to move out of the way. Phew!

26 March 2007

Nasigram Village turns out to be a simple, quiet village of rather large proportions. Dirt roads separate the lush vegetation between the mud-houses, most of which have an inner courtyard and their own cow-shed. I have seen a few motor-bikes but otherwise Nasigram is completely peaceful, almost a retreat from the 21st century. It is home to the sweetest people, who are welcoming in the extreme, and I had no trouble finding a host-family, despite the language barrier. But they seem to want to make me fat!

31 March 2007

Coming to the small town of Poramatala after a few days in Nasigram feels like returning to the city of Dubai after a month in the desert. They are so near yet such entirely different worlds.

I am having a twin-tub top-loader experience. The guest-house I am staying in actually has a washing-machine! I remember as a child when washing-day was a big deal and Mum would not make any other commitment for a Wednesday.

I have never used a manual washing-machine before because I have always had the privilege of an automatic in the West, or simply used buckets in India. The traditional Indian method for washing clothes is to slap them on the ground until you turn blue in the face, but I usually prefer to stomp around a foot in each bucket. This technological-half-way feels almost surreal: fill with water, add soap and wash, drain, refill and rinse, drain, wring clothes, transfer to spin-tub and spin!

1 April 2007

I brave the town and head to the Banyan tree in the market-centre which is rather impressive, swallowing the Mother Kali temple with its roots and providing shelter for all the tiny stalls tucked away underneath. It amuses me how you can find “sell-everything” shops or tiny shoe-box-sized shops crammed with a thousand products!

It is surprising that in this town, although there is a mobile-phone shop on every corner, the latest fad, a digital camera, is still quite a marvel. I get the shop-keepers and local people involved in my snap-happy play. Most people in India love to have their picture taken, so they strike a most unnatural pose then giggle when they see themselves on the screen.

I am struck by how friendly everyone is. I take a picture of a man pressing milk-sweets into a mould, and obtain a couple as a gift, which have me going back to buy more! Down the street I ask about two large bags dripping milk, and a man points at another display of milk-sweets. It must be known that milk-sweets are West Bengal’s specialty!

4 April 2007

Mr Gecko likes to hang out on my ceiling, growing fat out of eating little flying insects, making me happy in the process. The other day Mr Spider, who with such long legs was the size of my hand, moved into my bathroom, but we both kept a respectful distance and within two days he moved out. I don’t mind Mr Bat hanging on my clothes to sleep, and even the occasional visit of Mr Mouse does not disturb me much as he takes a short-cut across my room, scuttling in from one hole in the wall (a drain for floor-washing) and out of the other.

However, I am a little less happy when I find Mr Roach under my bed. The girl next door helps me trap the three-inch cockroach with a metal cup. He sticks his feelers out from beneath, and between a few screams we manage to take the pesky intruder outside! What to do? Rural Bengal is home to more than smiling people, wide-eyed cows, heavy buffaloes, scampering goats and flea-ridden dogs!