Image - Flash – Image – Flash - etching into my memory.
I see groups of turbaned men crouching around small fires, taking off the chill before dawn – Flash - on the flat roof of a concrete house a man goes through some sort of exercise routine, lifting his arm and then his leg, bringing them together behind him to clutch his foot – Flash - two boys shoo a herd of goats along an alleyway, heading for the dry, yellow fields that I can make out in the light of the rising sun – Flash – an old woman in a red sari walks slowly along the side of the road, a pottery pitcher balanced carefully on her head - full of water from the well? – Flash – In a garden a woman and a boy beat dust from a yellow and red carpet, suspended on a fraying rope that stretches between two tall palm trees.
Flash - I can’t sleep anyway – I never can on planes – and I’m not in the mood for a movie yet, so I’m writing, trying to get these flashes down before I forget them (will I ever forget them?). This writing thing is becoming a habit. I write whenever I have a little time, wherever I can snatch a few minutes – late at night, early in the morning, lunch, airports, trains, even in the car when I’m waiting for Holly to finish at the stables. And I find myself scribbling down a thought or a line on scraps of paper to use later, sometimes I even wake myself up and get out of bed to write something down. But today I’m writing on the plane as India becomes the distance.
I think about all the things that have happened to me while I’ve been in India. I can still almost feel the small, stubby fingered, hand tugging on my shirt, smell the exhaust fumes and the hot streets, see the tumbling colours, and hear the toots from the put-puts. I’m wearing my flip-flops, the same ones I was wearing when I climbed to the top of Golconda. I smile and rub the place on my arm where the leper girl touched me – nothing yet – thank goodness. I’ve written about all of that – is there anything left to write? Haven’t I said it all already? No, there are a few things left that are worth recording.
I have been amazed by the incredible warmth and friendliness of the people I’ve met. The people at our offices, the staff working in the hotels and restaurants, our driver, the fort guide, even the people who approached me at the market. I’m not so naive as to not recognise that they were doing a job, or wanted something from me, and were getting paid for it – but there was genuine warmth in their eyes, recognition that that I was a person – I hope I gave it back.
The security - it is so tight in India since the attacks last year. Each time we drove up to our hotel our car was checked inside and underneath, and before being allowed into the hotel we had to have our bags scanned, empty our pockets, walk through a scanner, and be frisked. It was all very friendly, but it underlines how things have changed since I was last here five years ago. We went through the same security checks at the office - and at the airport we had to go through security checks as we entered the airport, into departures, and again immediately before we boarded our flight. India has always been high on admin - why use one stamp when five are available - but this security thing is new.
Flying down to Bangalore on an internal flight with Kingfisher airlines - “India’s only five star airline” - was a refreshing experience. I guess its like flying used to be, only without the alcohol (no alcohol on internal flights by law) - and so different from US, Flybe, or even BA - it is so wonderfully Indian. The aircraft livery, furnishings and stationary are a manly red and black and it sets the tone for the “Kingfisher experience” – yes they really call it that! Even the American pilot who welcomes us on our flight to Hyderabad calls it the “Kingfisher experience”, it’s a little disconcerting that he doesn’t realise that we are already in Hyderabad and are actually flying to Bangalore – but hey!
The hostesses, and yes they really do call them hostesses, are all under twenty-five, and seem to want to be (and may become) Bollywood film starlets. Their red uniforms – bolero jackets, silver buttons, short pencil skirts, red shoes with heels, and crisp white blouses – are outrageously tight. They have red painted nails, lustrous, long, dark hair, and are well (although subtlety) made-up. Their smiles dazzle as they flick their hair back, flutter their eyelashes, and serve curried scrambled egg for breakfast.
This could be as close to heaven as it gets, but its not an airline for the politically correct.
At the start of the slightly soft-porn safety video, billionaire owner – Dr. Vijay Mallya (he has a Peter Strinfellowish look, long grey swept back hair, cream linen suit, and sparkling eyes) – tells me that he personally picks all of his employees – I can understand why. He made his money out of Kingfisher beer and seems to have brought the same marketing strategy to his airline – and he’s attracting a similar customer group – mainly men.
(If you want to see exactly what I mean - http://images.google.co.uk/images?gbv=2&hl=en&q=kingfisher+airlines&btnG=Search+Images).
Bangalore airport used to be an experience in itself. It was tiny, grubby, and incredibly busy. There were never enough plastic chairs to sit on, nowhere to eat, duty free was a tiny booth set into a wall – and for twenty Rupees you could bribe the toilet attendant to let you smoke it the cracked tiled, smelly toilets. The new airport is just the opposite and the twin of Hyderabad.
Bangalore is a busy city, at least as busy as Hyderabad. We had an appointment across town to open a kitchen at a school for underprivileged children. The traffic was horrendous and we were late. The school is run by Indian Roman Catholic nuns who served us tea from thermos flasks made from milk, not water - I hate milk, but drank some anyway. They told us about their work and thanked us for our help and support. They were very serene and immaculate in pressed peach coloured saris. I felt a complete fraud, I didn’t even know about this until a few hours before. I had nothing to do with it – I hoped God wouldn’t mark me down with the sin of being glorified undeservedly (God if you are reading this I really didn’t expect it).
After tea we went outside. A small band of children, smart in white, red, and green uniforms, played and sang a song of welcome – they were all pretty much in tune. A small boy at the front of the band, held and thumped a baton in white-gloved hands, calling out orders as they marched, and we followed, to the new building. The kitchen was a single-storey breeze block affair, not much to look at, apart from the brightly painted outside walls that had been illustrated by some of our very talented Indian employees who were there, smiling and looking proud - they had a right to be - and a right to be there – It made me feel even more of a sham.
We gathered on the veranda of the kitchen. Speeches were made, songs were sung, ribbons were cut, photographs were taken and then a young, brown robed, Catholic Monk said prayers before sprinkling the building with holy water by way of a blessing. Some of it splashed onto my face and - despite the expectations of my colleagues - it didn’t burn. A small boy bought me a rose, he looked up to me and smiled and I reached down and shook his hand. He smiled again and nodded - and suddenly I felt that I should be there, and that I wasn’t a fraud at all.
It had cost a few thousand pounds to build this kitchen, before this was built the nuns had to cook outside in a corner – I had no idea how they managed when it rained. They showed us around the two roomed building, smiling proudly, and set a light under a pan of milk – boiling it until it overflowed the pan – a traditional ceremony of good fortune for new buildings.
As I made my way back to the car surrounded by waving, smiling children I felt honoured to have been given the opportunity to be there and meet these people - honoured, fortunate and lucky, not fraudulent at all – despite the milk tea, the prayers and the holy water.
So - trip over. Goodbye India. I hope I get to come back.
Gosh!
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