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I am working on a short film for the Railway Children charity, promoting their educational program. But I am in Bombay, the capital of Bollywood……………. Bollywood – bling, dancing girls, dancing boys, dancing girls and boys, dancing girls and girls, dancing boys and boys, dancing boys pretending to be dancing girls dancing with dancing boys and so on; over acted fights, different outfits per second,  more camp than Christmas.  Bollywood is barking. It is a fabulous extravaganza, filmed in every exotic location possible, the Pyramids, Great Wall of China, Beckton. Constructed around a lame script, they generally contain one of the 10 or so lead actors that seem to exist India. These actors are everywhere, associating and selling their souls to any product that will have ’em. You cannot move more than 20 yards without seeing one of their smug faces brandished from some billboard or poster, or blurting out from a television ad. They act, sing and dance, they are gods. India would crumble to nothingness if they all died – of course it would be a horrific plane crash over the Grand Canyon, caused by a fight over the lead lady…..god imagine the wreckage Prada, Guccci and Armani, more snakeskin than snake in a fiery desert Bollywood ball.


With the films dance sequences comes the cursory music that becomes synonymous to the  film. They exist in a symbiotic relationship, film and music, music and film. Every self respecting mobile phone user will have to have it set as their ringtone until the next box office hit comes about. If you do not hear it blaring out of the TV, car radio or filling a shopping Mall at least 50 times a day, then it has failed. If you do not have a catchy tune to your film then you are doomed, reduced to the archives of Bollywood history, never to see the daylight again. Get it right though and everyone gets rich. With over a billion people in India Bollywood is big business.


But there is not only Bollywood to fill this market – there is Tollywood, films made in Tamil Nadu, Collywood, Calcutta, Dollywood, films made by Dolly Parton. To have an ‘ollywood is to have your own style within a genre, use your own language and promote the stars you want to promote.


Working in the edit suite I have to resist the temptation and urge to use various of these ‘ollywood influences.  Child rights, abuse and trauma doesn’t quite seem to fit the genre, surely I can get a dance sequence in someplace.


“Sing is King”



Somebody once compared the street kids of Bombay to me to its pariah dogs. They did not mean this in a derogatory way, in fact the exact opposite. If you take a pariah dog and a domestic dog down the road and a car comes along, the pariah dog knows to get out of the way and will do so at the last possible moment. The domestic dog however, will not have a clue, it is soft and only responds to orders and food, it doesn’t realise the danger. It becomes a piece of road kill – another statistic if statistics were kept for dogs killed on the road.


This highlights the problem that faces a child when they run away from home to live on the streets of Bombay. They have run away from poverty or abuse, or are forced to be leave – they are seeking a life of their own.


I found myself sitting with a bunch of street kids watching the pariah dogs. One of them pointed to the dogs and said “That’s the clown, the comedian amongst them, and that one is in charge, he rules this street and the one over there is weak, he will not live long,” I looked around my friends, and as if as a direct reflection there was the  clown, the one in charge and the one that could not move from the gutter because he was high on glue.


Mumbai though is cleaning up its act, it has reduced the number of pariah dogs down from 700,000 to 70,000 through a cull. However, an order has been passed that this is against animal rights. A bit of a debate rages. The dogs are calm during the day, but can be vicious and deadly packs at night. There is now a no smoking ban in public areas inside and out, posters have been put up stating fines for spitting, urinating and shitting in the streets, you can’t even wash your car without being busted.


The Marathon is on too, in which I am competing in the half marathon at the slowest possible pace, a 13 mile walk. My excuse being that my training did not really go as planned, to which I am sticking to. The reality, I am a lazy sort. They have cleared the streets of beggars and the Marathonplanners have ensured that the route does not go by any slums. They want the world to see Mumbai as this lovely metropolis and want no dirty washing out there.


I finished the half marathon in a record 4 hours, quite an achievement, but what I am most impressed about is that I am not last, infact far from it. I am surprised that there are thousands of people doing exactly the same as me – walking it. I don’t know if this is really in the spirit of marathons as we know it, but heh this is India and things do work a little differently. Things that really got me are the number of people that go out and run, not for a charity, but for their company. Corporate branding proliferates like an allergic rash. I bet there are bosses out there forcing their staff to do it with the threat of the sack or worse promotion and responsibility if they don’t. Also some of these groups only do a bit of it, the bit in front of the cameras, cross the road and head back again. That so isn’t cricket.


We have taken a group of 28 children to do the 7km run, which they completed with great fervor. It gave them something to look forward to, an ambition, a goal in life. What is more they were given a goodies bag of stuff by the marathon sponsors. Soaps, shampoo, that sort of thing. It did amuse me though that there was Nivea face whitening cream in the bag (Oh how our cultures differ), something I did not really need. So for a while the street kids of Mumbai will be smelling good and whiter than white.


After we had completed our respective runs/walks I did a photo shoot at VT station, home to bullet holes courtesy of our fundamentalist friends. At first the boys were a little suspicious of me, probably thinking this is another white guy taking photos of poor people, poverty porn at this time of recession. But, after they realised I had done the half marathon too I was welcomed into the pack, I was allowed in, I was the domestic dog gone wild with his street brethren.


Proof of my monumental walk can be found here:


Anybody need some skin whitening cream. 



I am in Patna working on a film for the children’s charity I support, a dust bowl of a town someplace in Bihar. Not a place I would normally venture, but heh. I am put up in a reasonably nice hotel and promptly get about my work, there is nothing else to do in Patna believe me, so focus seems a relatively easy thing at this point.


All is going well till I discover that my reasonably nice hotel has a cockroach problem. Not the big uns, but little ugly blighters. The damn things are everywhere. I chase them out of the room, I squash em, I drown them, kill, kill, kill, but they keep appearing. I get the manager of the hotel and point at them. The manager comes back with some ominous green spray. kill, kill, kill.


For a day or so they vanish, the green spray has done the trick. But then they are back, I chase them out of the room, I squash em, I drown them, kill, kill, kill. But they cease to end, more green death spray is applied, but my nightmare never seems to cease. Where are they hiding.


I am writing this blog entry from a Mac Donalds (Yes, yes, I know – chav) at Delhi Airport on my way back to Mumbai. A man sits opposite and we start to have the usual conversation, where are you from, where are you going, where is your wife – he is tucking into a juicy chicken burger and lays it down on the table. It is then with a certain degree of horror that I watch as two cockroaches run from my laptop towards his burger. I am mortified. He hasn’t noticed. Nobody’s noticed. I’ve noticed. I do the honourable thing and quickly leg it.

Around the corner I peer into my laptop and there they are, whole families, whole communities, a whole silicon metropolis of roaches existing in harmony, dinner parties with fancy dresses, white picket fences, shops and boulevards. I am a delivery boy of middle class cockroaches to the world. I tried to destroy them, so they used me to spread. My cards have been dealt, karma has spoken.


Stuff a Buddhist approach I think; balls to reincarnation; karma, my left foot. I have take a Republican party stance on diplomacy – Peace is attained through superior firepower.  I promptly phone a friend in Mumbai – “Get me cockroach spay” I cry. “Why do you want cockroach spray” he responds. “They are in my laptop.” “What is in your laptop,” “Never mind, just get me cockroach spray, the greenier and deadlier the better. Nepalm, I demand weapons of mass destruction.”


This may be the last blog entry from me for a while as my laptop dissolves into a blob of plastic, silicon, insect and those F keys that nobody really knows what they do. My Karma evenly distributed.


My apologies go out to the Delhi airport Mac Donalds and my sympathies at their forthcoming closure, the jobs lost and the households destroyed, the suicide of the proprietor and the need for his child to go out and beg. It is a shame really that he was destined to bring about world peace till the sudden death of his father. That’s karma for you.


Maybe we need to live with our insect friends, maybe I should feed them instead of killing them, maybe I need to buy them multi armed Laura Ashley dresses and pointy shoes. I finish this article on flight 801 bound for Mumbai, I watch as another roach legs it from the fold.


Sorry Air India…….. And the…….etc, etc, etc.

That’s Karma for you.


The sun is getting low in the sky over Calcutta, long shadows slice through the afternoons haze and rest across her wide boulevards and Maidens. Cities are like love affairs. Each has its own character and its own reason for you being there. At first they are exciting, everything is new, they are there to be explored. You experience wonder and trepidation as you wander through roads and lanes, shops and markets, people and sights – these are the things that cannot be experienced in any other city, her geography, her infrastructure, her mystery – this is the mistress to explore.


Over time you get to understand her. You develop a routine, the same coffee shop in the same street, the same barber, the same bar with the same barman. You seek solace in what you know – she then has you, your mistress she looks down on you from her rooftops and religious spires she reaches out to you and asks you the question, do you want to be my wife.


Calcutta is  a place I fell for many years ago, because of its name – a gateway to the East a place of wonder. She had a certain romanticism surrounding her. She was a woman that one sees from afar, on another platform or at a passing bus stop, always causing wonder, wondering just what she would be like. She is intellectual  and smart, tidy and has a certain class and is terribly British, she is easy to know. She is comfortable and welcoming – however she is just a little boring. I could spend a certain amount of time with her, but eventually I would leave her.


Bombay is not the kind of city you take home to meet your mother. She is a fling with great passion, she wears short skirts and high heels and often goes up escalators wearing no knickers – After a night with Bombay you question to yourself “How much do I leave on the bedside table,” Bombay’s streets, its slums, its poverty and riches, she will eat you up, suck you dry and spit you out. She’s an urban whore. To paraphrase Catch 22 “Bombay is the kind of girl you fall in love with, because she is the kind of girl you can sleep with without falling in love with.”


Delhi can not be trusted, she has two sides and she knows it. She comes across all smiley and nice, but is truly a bitch. She hangs around at photocopying machines and chooses her mate or really her prey. She is slightly schizophrenic and suffers from an addictive personality. She is a city that needs help she needs to be booked into therapy and a clinic for damaged cities’ souls.


I am on the train, a 31 hour trip, leaving the kind warmth of Calcutta’s bosom and heading back to face that mistress of mine Bombay. The kind of city that good boys should stay away from, the kind of city that terrorists try to kill. But she is too streetwise, those little boys with their guns. She took them in made them men, then spat them out without their trousers or their souls. Bombay that mistress of mine.









Following the Bombay bombings and shootings I have decided to do a piece on the terrorism as I have witnessed it. This is not intended to offend anyone, but is snippits of conversations, observations and my point of view.


My experience to the terrorism in Mumbai was first hearing on the news that there was a shooting at Leopolds, a bar made famous for its existence in the novel Shantaram and frequented by Westener types. My initial thoughts were that it was because of their over inflated prices, but as the following day progressed on a bus journey to AgraI heard further snippits of information. A bomb, thousands dead, a hotel burnt to the ground, death, death, death, the truth difficult to fathom. Later, I switched on the television to the media circus happening on every channel, repeated images of fire in the Taj, cars driving and someone shooting, pundits with pundit points of view. The truth difficult to fathom.


It was really happening, It was happening live, but my head said why are there not more images. My indoctrination to MTV style media was fueling my desire for more images, facts, fire, death and destruction. I wanted the truth, a truth for me to fathom.


I found myself checking the lock on my room and considering if I should place a chair in front of it or grand piano if I had one. I planned an escape root through an air vent at the back of my room. If anything went down here, I would be prepared.


But I was in Agra, why would anything happen here, you don’t get more Muslim than the Taj Mahaul. Also, I was in a fleapit of a hotel, no terrorist in their right mind would attack here. So my basic guideline on safety in a terrorist prolific world is – be in hearing distance of the call to prayer and don’t pay more than 300 ruppees a night. I returned back to the repeated images, I was an addict, consume, consume, consume. Switch off the television before it destroys your mind. Switch off the television before it destroys your mind. Something was telling me to switch off the television, the reasons I was unsure. I switched the television off, my mind already destroyed.


After it was all over I wanted a viewpoint, a perspective from the people, the common man, the word on the street. Many people just shook their heads, eyes down “Terrible, a terrible thing that has happened”, “Bomb Pakistan to oblivion” was another subtle response.


Many Muslims seemed more interested in conspiracy theories, than accepting that it could be a fellow Muslim that did this “It is the CIA, they want to provoke India to attack Pakistan, they hate Muslims”. One Muslim chap told me that “99.9 % of Americans, Westeners and Jews were evil” I asked him what about me, he said  I was ok. I guess that made me the .1 % of the holier than thou, I was honored. He must have been honored. I hope you feel honored.


And then there was a Hindu guy in a bar, drunk on cheap whiskey. He said “I am Hindu, Hinduism is a tolerant religion, I am tolerant, but I hate those Muslims and blacks.” I told him that maybe he should look the word tolerant up in a dictionary. He got a little upset and told me that I was a coward because I would not go out in the street and punch a Muslim in the face. Well if not going out and randomly attacking some innocent man is cowardice then I am as yellow as they come.


Propaganda has been filling my text and email inboxes. messages from Bombay police warning about false bomb threats and lovely messages stating that we must hold together as a nation. These people know how volatile India and its cities can be, particularly Bombay. They don’t want the riots that have happened in previous years to start again.


So how does a country exist with such volatile feelings boiling under the surface. Well the fact is that there are a lot of examples of the people, and worse, than the above in India, millions, but there are also millions more that understand acceptance. It is a society that has evolved with huge social differences, different religions, different gods, different castes. It is a society of differences. And with differences comes conflict. But one thing holds it all together Mother India.


While I was visiting the Liberation museum in Bangladesh I came across the following quote, located above the door as you exit. I don’t know who made it, but I feel it is a poignant message in this modern, terrorist ridden age.


“Let us remove hatred and prejudice from the world and let it begin with me.”


Please forward onto those who may most benefit………those that preach hate, those that hide behind the guise of their religion (All religions) and use it to justify their actions, those that cannot think for themselves.


I see that Leopolds are open again and not removing the bullet holes. Apparently they are doing this out of the need to remember…..and are not using it to milk more Westener types. Can’t say I blame them.



2 tier ac (2 bunks, air condiioning) is a wonderful way to travel. Its decor is the plastic material that is generally reserved for the various forms of hospital stretchers and other surgical wheeled devices. I am constantly brought tea and food and then at night my seat folds out to form a bed, of medical standard. I draw the curtains to the rest of the carriage and I am in a cocoon of my own. Me and the blackness of the Indian night rushing past.

In the night we pass a station full of sleeping people, I note that the style of dress has drastically changed from Mumbai and that full on handle bar mustaches seem to be the fashion in this rural area.

To the sound of a cacophony of snoring and flatulence I gently drift off to sleep. With the thought that it would be quite easy to have sex in this cocoon of mine. At 2 I finally sleep, I believe my last thought was of my bobbing white arse rushing across the Indian landscape, a rythmic bastion of light in a dark world.

At 7 I am awoken to a  gentle alarm over the tannoy reminding me that it is 7 and that I should be awake when India wakes up. I look out of the window and marvel at the silky, silvine (Is that a word?) mist  that hangs like a mystical blanket over fields upon fields of shitting men. There are thousands of them, they are everywhere. Squatting like mere cats, they all have found their individual spots and orientate themselves so that they are not facing another shitting man. No hiding in a bush for these men, the open field is the place to go.

Good morning India.

The night train to Delhi leaves Mumbai Central station exactly at 4.40. 4.40 being the time it was supposed to leave. Indian railways apparently is the second largest employer in the world. Don’t ask me who the first is, maybe the Chinese army or the company that makes those toast racks you find in most bed and breakfasts.. Sorry I digress, whatever, I have to say that I am impressed in the Indian railways efficiency.

We dreamily filter through the suburbs and the names I have come to know so well, Bandra, Santa Cruz, Andheri, and as the sun starts to get low in the sky we cross the piss filled waterway that separates the rest of India from my beloved Bombay (Mumbai).

I say my beloved Bombay purely because I have always wanted to make a statement like that. I have been here for over 2 months and in my mind that allows me to say “My beloved” about anything I please. I ponder whether there is a justifiable amount of time you have to spend in a place before you can make this statement.

As soon as you cross the waterway you are into the rural countryside of India. It could be England except for the palm trees, occasional buffalo and a semi naked man masturbating behind a tree.

Hang on a minute, why on earth would anybody use the words beloved and Bombay in the same sentence. I guess it is the insanity of the place. It just does not get out of your head. In terms of touristic wonders, there are none. The gateway to India is a crappy lump of carved rock that serves little purpose than to attract the most touristy of tourists and touts. The buildings of any note are all designed like St Pancras Station, so if you are a particular fan of seeing your favourite station in warmer climes, then this is for you.

There are no public spaces where you can chill out, as these would rapidly be filled by slums. It takes an age to get anywhere, because the roads, which barely rise above the status of a track are gridlocked. The commute on trains finds people crammed in like sardines. that is if sardines commuted, and in fact sardines are lucky, at least they have a fine film of oil and tomatoe sauce between them and the next sardine.  Instead you find yourself so close to your fellow man that you can feel the warmth from their crotch against you leg and regularly have you buttocks felt to check for your wallet or just perhaps cop a feel of the white guy.

Beggars of all types are everywhere. Even the person with the biggest heart in the world soon becomes hardened to the plight of the frail and needy and you find yourself questioning if you have a conscience anymore. If a 4 year old child is standing in front of you, with their big needy eyes, holding their 6 month old brother, kissing your feet and saying “please uncle” you just ignore them and don’t feel too bad about it either, because that is the 9th one you have had that morning and it is only 9am. Furthermore you are sure they are sharing the same baby, but in a different rag. Then you have the cripples with every kind of disease and limbs missing. They make a bee line straight for you, thrusting out their particular ailment like some perverse human game of tetris.

Transvestites wear saris, which at first seems odd, but why wouldn’t they, it is what the lady folk wear. But they feel it is their right to beg off you too. I guess those saris don’t come cheap and a transexual has to have a good wardrobe. So on an average trip across town you will be approached by 30 or more cripples, sari wearing chaps and baby wielding babies.

In Bombay there is little opportunity to relax. The city will not allow you to do this. I am sure there is little of the western ailments like depression. Because the time you spend being depressed is just about the right amount to allow the city to swallow you up. The brain is not allowed to stop and contemplate. It has to be active and fighting for survival all the time. People fight to board, and suffer, the over crowded trains and 2 hour commute. They step over the beggars and jostle with their fellow 20 million Mumbians all without concern, because it is what they have to do.

It is the intensity of Bombay that makes it my beloved place. If you can survive Bombay then everything after it is a milder form of insanity. It is my beloved because it  has given me good training for the rest of the sub continent that awaits at the end of these tracks….Delhi next on route to Katmandu.


A small stack of chillies, a lime and coal, all  neatly tied together hang above the front door to houses, entrances to restaurants, off the tow hitch of cars and in many a rickshaw and taxi. So what are these little bundles of partly made curry and fuel about?


Folk wisdom has it that spirits that can harm are constantly looking for food. When they find none, then they attack humans. Lime is used, because it is sour, chillies because they are pungent and coal because it is black and much loved by malevolent spirits. By distracting these spirits we distract their virulent attention from us.



 You can spot the little pile of goodies at the top of this image. This is the local barbers by the way…..


Hang on a minute surely chillies, lime and coal is not the best of diets.. Where’s the essential carbs, nutrients, fats and roughage, Crash diets are not healthy even for the most evil of spirits.


I love you India.



Linking Road is the Oxford Streetof Mumbai. It is set within the well to do area of Bandra,  and similarly to Oxford Streetit is full of complete and utter crap. Adidas and Nike labels and low quality replicas of Adidas and Nike labels proliferate like the plague. Sitting on a bench, a fiberglass Ronald Macdonald lures in the modern Indian youth as if he were a bag of sweet wielding phaedophile outside an all boys Catholic school.


Now I can justify to myself for going in many ways: I want to compare what it is like to the UK MacDonalds; I have eaten curry every day, twice or 3 times a day; one needs to experience all manifestations of the culture; a press gang whacked me over the head and dragged me in; I am a naïve Catholic boy. But, you would not believe me, so i fess up, I don’t mind a MacDonalds from time to time. There I said it, i will burn, i will burn.


Anyway, I’m in, and there is not a flippin’ burger in site. Instead of the limp beef burgers, that  bear no resemblance to their advertisements there are limp chicken burgers that bear no resemblance to their advertisements. The chips are the same though and fortunately the coke is coke and not some hybrid adaptation. Mind you coke is coke wherever you are in the world. Change is good, but sometimes what you know is the best.


Sitting in my formica wonderland I peer out of the window and watch a holy cow stroll down the middle of the road like a tart from some Northern English town, with a tiny skirt and new stilettos. I look at the cow, then at my burger, then back to the cow and I am sure he is laughing at the fiberglass clown perv. and thinking 70% Hindus in the country….my arse is safe here.


Every civilization has a unique way of looking at the world. A cluster of ideas which define the goal of human existence, the ways to reach this goal, the errors to be avoided and the obstacles to be expected on the way. This view defines central human experiences and answers questions as to what is good and what is evil, what is real and what is unreal, what is the essential nature of men and women and the world they exist in, what is their connection to nature, other human beings and to the cosmos. What is god, and should that cow be in my burger.


Three interlinked elements comprise a major part of this Hindu world view; moksha, dharma and karma, with this trinity forming a large part of the Indian psyche.


Moksha – the goal of life


Self-realisation, transcendence, salvation, a release from the world – Hindus see moksha as the goal for life. This ‘ultimate’ reality is considered beyond human comprehension, conceptual thought and the mind by many gurus, but is considered as the highest goal and meaning of human life.


Hindus see life as a combination of the tragic and romantic. Tragic in that it is pervaded by ambiguities and uncertainties where man has little choice but to bear the burden of unanswerable questions, inescapable conflicts and incomprehensible afflictions of fate. But within this journey is the romantic, and the seeker if he withstands the perils of the road will be rewarded by exaltation beyond normal human experience, an ultimate reality.


One of the manifestations of this understanding is the feeling of hope, even in the most dismal of living standards. The Indian mind tends to convert even the smallest ray into a blazing light. Clutching at straws many millions live in slums and an absolute poverty and are happy because they live with the possession of hope for a better future.


Furthermore, being connected to a higher reality, the divinity immanent within each human being , gives a feeling of self worth that comes from a pre conscious conviction of ones metaphysical significance. However bad life is, by being connected to this ultimate reality ones self esteem is nourished and stands against life’s despairs and inequalities.




If Moksha is the goal of life, then dharma can be seen as law, moral duty, conformity with the truth of things, the means through which man approaches the desired goal.


Years ago every person knew that it was not what you did that was important for spiritual progress, but whether you acted in conformity with your dharma.  Whether you were a shoemaker, priest, housewife, prostitute or doctor all were considered equally good and equally right if it was consistent with your dharma.


Dharma, is being vigorously challenged by modern india, as it embraces Western ideals. Individual choice, material rewards and human aspirations as opposed to spiritual activity have led to social envy, greed and selfishness. Dharma is crumbling under modernity.


It does sound different – “My dharma in life is to be a shoemaker and provide the best shoes I can, so that i may provide shelter, feed and clothe my family, to perform this i am on route to achieving moksha” as opposed to “My dharma in life is to work in a call centre for British Gas and buy real Adidas trainers and hang out at Mac Donalds eating limp chicken burgers that bear no resemblance to the advertisement, to perform this I am on route to becoming obese and soulless, but at least my feet look cool”. 




The third essential idea of the Hindu world view is Karma. An opinion may go thus “even at time of death a man should wish to do good deeds and wish to be reborn in a place where he can do good deeds again. After many lives of good deeds (living in dharma) a man will attain moksha. If he does evil deeds, his form changes till he falls lower, till he becomes a jar (an innanimate thing). So karma can be seen as the cycles of birth and death in which an individual soul progresses or regresses through various levels of existence; and the control of this movement by the karma of the individual soul, the balance of right and wrong actions that accompany the individual from one birth to another.


This can allow Indians to accept the inevitable dissapointments that afflict even the most fortunate of lives but it can also lead to denial. I perform an action now, because of  actions from a past life.



So to consider this in context I look at the holy cow walking down the road. Its soul must be heading towards moksha to be experiencing the existence as a holy cow, which incidentally is supposed to be holy, because it contains all the gods.  Its current dharma, well that one seems easy, it just needs to wander around and be holy and not get itself trapped in the christian area and its karma, well I don’t know where it came from or where it is going, but it sure isn’t going to be eaten here, not for a few years yet anyway.


Now kfc over the road………Are there holy chickens?






This weekend saw the end of the Ganpati festival. Thousands of people followed processions around Chowpatty and Yuhu beaches in Mumbai. There was no chance in getting anywhere fast.

The idols were led down to the beach and then after various, more or less, vigorous rituals immersed and left in the sea.

This is one of the greatest festivals in the world…. though if I were to question the blatant abuse of the environment, as thousands of idols made from non bio degradable and poisonous substances are just left in the sea, would that make me a real party pooper.

India has far bigger problems, but maybe the festivals are the perfect opportunity to encourage a better understanding of human impact. Lets face it communication of an ideal is what the festivals were designed for in the first instance.

Click link to see the aftermath.…of-kurukshetra

Click image for more from the festival.

The rickshaw is a beautiful place to meditate and study the city. It is like your own personal, portable hide from where you can examine the city’s goings on.

Click the picture below to take you to the new set on Flickr.

Indian portraits has been updated, click picture below to see full set

Also, more photos added to those random images of Indian life


Following on from my previous blog entry on how Ganesh (Ganpati, Ganesha) was created here is a break down of some of the symbolism associated around him.

Symbolism within Hindu culture is prevalent in all of its deities and the rituals that go hand in hand with them. From a Western point of view all these gods and the mythology that surrounds them, seems quaint, but may seem absurd to worship. However, when you consider the symbols and the totenism associated with them and consider the meaning in the context of your own existence, then there is something beautiful about them.

So some meanings about the icon of Ganesha.



An elephants trunk has the strength to uproot a tree and the finesse to pick up a needle. Ganesha’s trunk symbolises the fact that the wise person has immense strength and fine discrimination.


Ganesha has large ears. The wise man hears all.



Ganesha has four hands.  In one he holds a lotus, the symbol of enlightenment. In the other a hatchet. That is, the old karma – all your sanskars, the accumulated good and bad of past deeds get cut when enlightenment comes.


The third hand holds laddus, or sweet meats. They are the rewards of the wise life. However, Ganesha is never shown eating the laddus. The wise man never partakes of the rewards of his deeds. He is not attached to them.


The fourth hand is shown blessing the people. The wise man wishes the best to everyone.




Ganesha has only one tusk, the other is shown broken off. The symbolism here is that the wise person is beyond duality (Our ego separate from our surroundings). Once we transcend this duality we see the universe as a single whole and we become aware of our true selves. Wisdom allows us to see all as one and ourselves as an integral part of the whole.




Ganesha is shown sitting with one foot on the ground  and the other resting on his knee. The wise person is of the earth, but not entirely.



Ganesha is seen seated on a rat. The rat is a symbol of our senses, because it is said that the rat has to keep nibbling all the time – like the senses they are never satisfied. The wise person rides on his senses, he keeps them under control.


Ganesha is the son of Shiva and Parvati, the god governing the life force and the earth mother. This symbolises the spirit and body of the wise person. Finally the wise person has the dignity of an elephant.


If you say “Aum Ganeshaya Namah”before starting anything what you are saying is “in what we are about to do, let wisdom be our guide”.


In a sense Ganesha is the most powerful god and he is usually remembered before starting any rituals for other deities.


So Ganesha is up there with the biggies and worthy of a 10 day festival. Check out the position of any Eastern statue, icon or totem and question “What does this really mean?” or more importantly “What does this mean to me, how can this be an inspiration to me?”


Ref: Kishore Asthana –  unknown paper


Ganesh Chaturthi is now well underway – a ten day festival which sees one of India’s greatest deities celebrated and culminates with his immersion in the sea.

To understand who Ganesha was and how he was created I will adapt his story, purely because mythology is based around an oral culture and thus the story must be colloquial to my perceived audience. In no way is this out of disrespect to the Lord himself, but out of respect to him and the traditions of story telling.

Ganesha or Ganpati is the elephant headed lord from Peckham, South London. According to legend, Lord Shiva was busying himself away at war like activities. Fighting on the terraces – Millwall v Pompey or something like that. Now his missus, the old growler, ‘er indoors, Parvati, being a tidy sort of squeeze wanted to take some quality bath time. A few candles, bubble bath, Mills and Boom – you picture the scene.

However, she didn’t have anyone to guard her chambers. That’s a posh word for avocado bath suite. So guess what she goes up and does, she only conceives herself a son, for this soul purpose. No Securicor bill, nothing.

Anyway Shiva, pretty riled up from throwing plastic patio chairs, returns home. Forecourt flowers in hand, he fancies a bit of slap and tickle with the missus. But, what’s this, “who is this surly geeza at me missus’s avocado coloured chambers” thinks Shiva lord god of resolution “I’m gonna have myself some resolution here”. So he promptly cuts his brown bread clean off.

Parvati clambers out of her corner bath; pissed that she has been disturbed from page 86 of the Mills and Boom, a page of great sexual insight if you know what I mean;only to discover her newly created son headless. “Feckin ‘ell, where’s ‘is feckin ‘ead – don’t even think ’em feckin’ flowers going to get you out of this one Shiva me lad” she cries.

She is right moody and takes on the form of the Goddess Kali and only goes of and threatens destruction to the three worlds Heaven, Earth and subterranean earth. That’s Rock Steddie Eddie’s cafe, man what sells plants down the market and Stockwell tube to you and me.

Shiva, knowing that she is off on one and realising that it will take him weeks of getting it in the neck, thinks “I better resolve this.” So he sends out his ganas or hordes to the north (direction of wisdom, well Peckham Library) to bring back the head of the of the first living thing they come across.

It being a Sunday morning, living things are few and far between in Peckham, so anyways he’s hanging around, smoking a fag, when the hordes rock up. “What the bloody hell is that.” “An elephant’s head my lord” reply the hordes. “Well I can see its a bloomin elephant’s head can’t I……Couldn’t you have found something smaller” cries Shiva, stubbing out his Marlborough light. “Well it just ‘appens that there was an elephant 20 yards down the road, the owner was none too happy” reply the hordes. “Well stick the thing on that headless body over there, the missus is right on one, stuff about heaven, Earth and the subterranean, I am not going to see any action for weeks less we resolve this”.

So the hordes place the head on the lifeless body and Shiva blows life into him. Parvati is over the moon. The hordes cheer. Shiva names him Ganesha lord of his ganas. Problem solved. And so the god of wisdom, prosperity and good fortune is born. Dealing with the DHS and family benefits though is completely another story.

And so the celebration of Ganesha Chaturthi is there to celebrate the day when Lord Ganesha is believed to bestow his presence on earth for all of his devotees.

An interesting point is that the festival, a private event in people’s homes, got made into a public event in 1893 by Lokmanya Tilak, an Indian nationalist. He used the event to bond and build unity between all castes against a common enemy, you guessed it the British empire. It was a way of bringing people together when the British had banned all social and political gatherings to exercise control over the population.

For ten days the festival continues, with small statues in homes and larger ones in community areas or brightly decorated mantapas. A ritual of chanting, mantras and offerings is made. Then on various days, but most notably the last day, the statues are taken to the sea and immersed. And here is where they are left.

More stories of deities and historical figures in contemporary context to come.

Some friends invited me around to see the opening ceremony for the Ganpati festival (Ganesha) at their home. The festival lasts for 1.5 to 10 days, depending on how long you want to worship him, and culminates with the immersion of Ganpati in the sea. At home the opening ceremony goes on for several hours. Chanting, prayers, singing, offerings, and orientating the body towards the Ganpati all flow from a manual of conduct, more complex than an ikea kitchen suite.

After 1.5 days they took gunpati to the sea. More chants and offerings. Followed by rotating 7 times and then taking him out and leaving him at the bottom of the sea.

Click on image to see the full set of pictures

This is one of Mumbai’s nicer slum areas. They have walls, running water, electricity and not too much blue tarp.!! It is typical for a slum to be located in the gaps of land between developments. The developers and government would love to develop areas like this. With a population of 20 million land like this is a premium. But the slum holds a whole community, a slum city within the city. These people will not move without a fight. Some figures say that over 50% of Mumbai’s population live in an area designated as a slum.

Click on picture to see more images



This weekend I spent at Mumbai’s Yoga Institute on a 2 day specialist course.  My skills were honed and my body twisted into a variety of contortions (All for the calming price of a tenner).


Now the Yoga Institute is a little blissful haven, an ashram located right in the centre of Mumbai’s mayhem.


Unfortunately though for the institute it was built several years ago, before there was an airport and now resides directly under the flight path. Thunderous roars crash into the peaceful karma like a three legged randy bull in Harrod’s Royal Doulton dept after a Christmas delivery. But, like any a city’s noise, you soon get used to it and even welcome the pauses to meditate on the topic of  meditation.


Apart from the usual array of yoga techniques I found myself staring at candles, with the instructions that I was not allowed to blink. The ironic thing was that as soon as I was told not to blink, I blinked…and I was doing so well. It is all part of focusing the mind on a single point and cleansing the eyes through the tears that start to stream down your face.


Absolutions are an essential part of the of the yogi lifestyle, so with red eyes I moved onto the next daily routine, Jala Neti. To but this technique into its most basic form it is snorting lukewarm, salty water up both of your nostrils and marvel at the gunk that rapidly escapes from you nose, eyes and mouth. It is an enema for the nasal passage and sinuses or saline nasal irrigation to be exact.


Let’s face it the nose is designed to filter all the pollution and bugs that lurk in the air and as such why not give this filter a good clear out. And I have to say it is brilliant.


Yogis dub this as one of the best things you can do in your life. As well as physical, psychological and spiritual benefits it can cure, or help prevent sinus infection; allergy problems; respiratory disorders; asthma; hay fever;  deafness; migraine; giving up smoking; depression; mental tensions; epilepsy; hysteria; temper tantrums; sore throats and the common cold. It stimulates better powers of visualization and concentration and gives clarity to the mind.


Pranayama or good breathing is an essential part of meditation and yoga. As such a clear nasal passage goes a long way to aid this. Furthermore, Jala Neti subtly stimulates the olfactory bulb – the psychic centre, known as the Ajna Chakra and yogis believe the right and left nostrils need to be in balance to ensure a healthy nervous system and as such a healthy body and mind. 


So next time you are cleaning your teeth, think about giving those sinuses their daily enema. You may never look back.

The first time that I traveled to India I was surprised to see the swastika. It is everywhere, on religious sites, flower arrangements, and in people’s homes. Was India full of neo Nazis was my initial thought. Is this where they all came, when they ran away from Germany. But somehow the thought of Hans settling down to become a bratwurst and sauerkraut wallah did not seem to gel.

It wasn’t till I was in Jew Town in Cochin, where I saw a company called Swastika Spices that I realised something was afoot.

Swastika actually comes from a Sanskrit word and its existence dates back to the Neolithic period of India’s existence. It is a mark to signify good luck or “That which is associated with well being”*

In antiquity the symbol was extensively used by the Indo-Aryans, Persians, Hitties, Celts and Greeks. And is today a sacred symbol in Hinduism, Buddhism, Jainism, and Mithraism.

No Nazis here

No Nazis here

In Hinduism the symbol comes to represent the two forms of the god Brahma. Facing right it represents the evolution of the universe, and facing left its involution. It also signifies stability and groundness and is considered extremely holy by all Hindus. The Hindu god Ganesha is often shown sitting on a lotus flower on a bed of swastikas. The symbol adorns temples, signs, altars and any iconography that is sacred.

So how did the symbol get into the hands of the Nazis? Well in the 19th century the archaeologist Heirich Schliemann discovered the symbol at the site of Troy and associated it with the ancient migrations of proto-indo-Europeans. He connected it with similar markings found on pots from ancient Germany. He theorized that the swastika was a “significant religious symbol of our remote ancestors”.

The swastika became a symbol of “Aryan” identity. Unfortunately Adolph Hitler adopted the symbol and its meaning now came to represent Nazism, fascism, white supremacy and the Holocaust. A far distance from the good luck charm. Well that is if you are not a Nazis.

A search on wikipidia has a wealth of information on the symbol and its meaning in different cultures. I for one still find it hard to look at the symbol and and not connect it to the Nazis. I am sure Mr. Hitler new what he was doing when he chose the swastika but unfortunately he has tainted its existence for ever in the West.

I noticed in a recent film here “Mumbai Meri Jaan”, about the train bombings in Mumbai, that one of the characters was wearing a swastika T shirt. The character also happened to be a Hindu who was xenophobic and anti Muslim. I hope this is not the sign of change for the swastika in the East.

If the semiotics surrounding the symbolism of the swastika takes on this Western fascist role – well there may be a few peace loving temples looking for plasterers. I would love to carry a swastika as a good luck charm, or maybe tattooed on my forehead, but trying to explain this to everyone I ever meet in my Western life would be just too dull. Maybe I will stick to a rabbit’s foot.

* Ref: Wikipedia

Head wiggling / waggling is something we English just find utterly bemusing. It is also quite difficult to get right as well. Well for this gora anyway who has little or no rhythm in his head and neck regions…this does pretty much spread to other parts of the body, but we will address this under Bollywood dancing at some stage.


In the West we are so accustomed to our rigid up and down for yes, left and right for no, that this general bobbing and bouncing around in front of our eyes leaves us frowning and questioning, “is that yes, or no, what exactly is that”.


Head wiggling is more like when two pariah dogs enthusiastically meet each other in the street with their tails wagging away as they greet each other.


So here are a few explanations*


Firstly the movement: Rotate the chin to one side, about 15 degree and dip the ear. Once complete quickly and smoothly repeat the motion in the other direction. Repeat and carry on for as long as is required. Often for several seconds or longer if you are really getting animated. The essential part to remember is that the movement must seem effortless and smooth.


What can a wiggle get you?


Responding in the affirmative:


If talking to an Indian and you find yourself in complete agreement then you can show this agreement by wiggling your head. Example: a conversation between Bob and Dave (two classic Indian names):


Bob “George Bush is a complete idiot, who has alienated many cultures in the World and propagated terrorism”

Dave does not need to respond by saying “I agree”, he just wiggles away emphatically and they are both of the understanding that they are in agreement that George Bush is a complete arse. Beautiful.


Saying thank you:


Saying thank you in India is much less fashionable than it is in England. However it does not go amiss. A simple wiggle of the head will make this gesture.


Dave “Here is your chai”, he hands Bob his tea.

Bob wiggles away, with no need of opening his mouth.


Acknowledging ones presence:


Normally in the UK a hi, a nod or a small wave will acknowledge your presence. But in India, simply make eye contact and wiggle away.


Making friends:


To say that wiggling your head makes you instant friends with somebody is probably an exaggeration, but it isn’t far from the truth. If you wiggle and get a wiggle back then you are well on route to becoming life long buddies with your fellow wiggler. Apparently though this will not get you a discount in Mumbai’s redlight district, but you may end up with a, not so pleasant, itch.


Disarming people:


Gregory Roberts puts it so eloquently in Shantaram “gradually, I realised that the wiggle of the head was a signal to others that I carried an amiable and disarming message: I am a peaceful man, I don’t mean any harm”


So if there are a bunch of goondas hanging out on the street corner, a little wiggle will suffice in ensuring your safe passage. Though I would ensure that you have practiced, getting it wrong may suffice in getting your head kicked in.


To confuse things even more, apparently there is a difference between North and South wiggles. I have not been North yet, so can’t comment, but I am sure it will take a while to adjust my wiggle.


Furthermore, unlike the pariah dogs and their wagging tails – head wiggling should not be followed up by trying to sniff the anus of your fellow wiggler and then trying to hump them on the street. This, as far as I know, is not an Indian integral cultural norm.


Ref:, Shantaram, by Gregory Roberts






From the air Mumbai is a patchwork of blue. It is as if somebody has taken a load those bags you get at Ikea and randomly thrown them out of an airplane, forming a metropolis quilt  that any Amish mother in law would be proud of.


To Indians this blue tarpaulin is probably the third greatest invention, close on the heels of the wheel and cricket. It is everywhere. I half expect the stuff to appear on the commodities market, next to gold, corn and pork bellies.


According to Maslov’s hierarchy of needs, shelter and warmth is right in there with the pysiological needs, vying for position with other needs like water, food and excretion. So this blue plastic is an essential part of Indian survival. It is difficult to have your eyes open and not have some of this blue wonder material occupying a large part of the picture.


When our office’s roof sprung a leak in the last monsoon downpour. The action taken was to tie down some of this blue plastic and the problem went away. I am sure there is no long term  plan to fix the problems, but if it arises again I’m sure another sheet of this blue stuff will be on hand and readily dispatched.


Likewise, any self respecting slum or pavement dwelling cannot be, unless it is festooned with this magic material and its amazing capabilities to keep out water. If it didn’t exist, then the poor would just get wet.


The question that arises in my head is why blue? There is limited supplies of white, often used for covering stalls selling complete rubbish by the station, but predominantly it is blue. India being a nation of colour, with its ladies elaborately adorned in a rainbow of saris, and spices of every colour imaginable and then there is Bollywood a technicolour extravaganza, but this ethos does not come down to the humble tarpaulin. Blue is what you get.


Maybe this is a business idea for some up coming entrepreneur “Maslov’snot blue tarpaulin company”. Any colour you want, so long as it isn’t blue, guaranteed to keep you on top of that hierarchy of needs and keep you up with the Joneses or Kamals.


My local highstreet / slum area is awash with barbers. There are more barbers than you can shake a proverbial stick at.


Note: A stick is defined as that what a mangy, flea ridden, pariah dog can pick up. If it is too big then it is a log, too small a twig.


There must be at least 20 of these hair shacks located in one hundred and fifty yards. So how do you choose. Simply going in and asking for a no.1 and beard trim can get you anything from a simple no.1 and beard trim with cursory nose hair trim, right the way through to a full facial, head and shoulder massage. And the cost 30 to 150 rupees, not relative to the service you receive.


Personally I just like to go in, spin the chamber, and see what I get. Generally, whichever from the above it is I usually leave to the laughter of the barbers and crowd of rickshaw drivers and children that have gathered to watch this momentous event. The paranoia in me  always thinks they are saying “You charged him how much for such little hair”.

Most people will cringe at the idea of visiting a slum. However, when Yasuda, the cleaning lady, from my offices invited me over for tea, how could I resist the opportunity.
Her house is the size of most people’s living rooms and houses six family members. And the kids in the neighbourhood, well they just loved the opportunity to pose for the camera.

DSC_0437, originally uploaded by colin laidlaw.



For those of you that remember the classic 1980’s game Frogger, where a little green frog has to cross a dual carriage way. A game that probably evolved because of Thatcherite moneterist policy ripping up great swathes of the green belt for urban expansion…sorry I digress.


Anyway, so Frogger is exactly the same as crossing a road in Mumbai. Exactly the same, apart from the fact that the little animated cars and trucks are replaced with rickshaws (if out of the centre), taxis (if in the centre), trucks, cyclists and buses that loom up on you like a vision from hell, oh and throw in the odd buffalo and cart.


Locals navigate this traffic like a seasoned Frogger player. I on the other hand navigate it like a junior rookie Frogger player.


When it comes to traffic, Indians exist very much within the moment. It is interesting to note that within yoga and meditation, much of the philosophy and teachings are to bring you in to the moment, to eliminate the past or future and concentrate on the being as it exists at that exact point. Likewise to navigate traffic, one must exist within the moment.


With such a huge population, dealing with overcrowding is commonplace. People barge past each other, or fight to get on the train. They sometimes explode at each other in moments of anger. But they do not harbour a grudge.


In London if somebody even slightly bumps into you on the tube you find yourself glancing at that person with complete hatred and vengeance for the rest of the journey. Death to them and their family is a small price to pay for them entering your personal space.


In Paris every car has a dent in it. I am sure that there is a job, for a very fortunate person, to take a sledge hammer to every car as it rolls off the Renault or Citreon production lines. And yet here, where the road’s intensity makes Paris look like a small sleepy village in the Dordogne, there is a distinct lack of dents on the vehicles. Why is this?


The reason is threefold: because all the drivers are in the moment of driving. There are no distractions from driving, it is what they are doing at that precise moment. Then there is the desire to get from A to B without any concern for any other drivers. There is no politeness or giving way, it is every man for themselves and thirdly there is no harbouring a grudge. Just because somebody cuts you up well that is what they need to do and they just did it better than you. You cannot let it evolve into anger or displace it on to the next person that comes along, you just need to get better at driving.


The same principles apply to crossing the road: next time I will do it with a complete selfish confidence. “I need to get to the other side” is my mantra, it is the most important thing in my life at that moment and I do not care who gets in my way.


Please note: This could be the last entry I write on this blog. If it is I would like Jimi Hendrix “All along the Watchtower“ played at my funeral, “Caution, no entry” written on my thombstone and the tire tracks of the Adheri East bus removed from my forehead.













The photos in this album were taken while out on a recruitment drive to get street children involved in the Mumbai marathon. Most of them look healthy and are having fun. But many are solvent abusers and will be dead in the next few years.

Getting involved with the marathon will give them something to aspire to and give them reason to leave the solvents behind them.


Click on the link to take you to the Flickr album (Select slideshow)


My room in Mumbai has such awful lighting that it is brilliant and strangely beautiful. Well from the camera’s point of view anyway.

Click on the image below to see the full album on flickr.




Indian homes exhibit immaculate cleanliness. Even the poorest home in the slum, will have its mud floor swept daily, saris regularly washed and out on a line, and teeth – everyone has  pristine glistening white ivories.  All, apart from those who sleep on the streets, are the epitome of clean loveliness, an advert for mr sheen or mr muscle or colin the surface cleaner (it is true –  there is a surface cleaner called colin with the tag line it cleans it shines – hmm).


However, take a family portrait of one of these, lovely shiny, families out on the street and you would be hard pressed to find a backdrop that does not consist of a huge pile of rubbish and general crap.


No public space seems safe from this onslaught of household waste, festooned with its mandatory dogs, pigs, goats and the lowest caste bird, the crow. Children too vie for a piece of this culturally accepted domestic fly tipping…


Anthropologists put this down to the historical effect of the brahmins, the highest amongst the caste order. Brahmins can only be pure because the dalit, lowest order of caste, is polluted. A pure body is not to come in contact with impure substances; the pure avoid impure foods and impure people. In the West much effort is expended in masking the dirty inside, however in India it is directed to shifting the dirt outside. *


It is interesting to note  that the largest set of prohibitions in interactions between castes  have to do with food, and the first thing any caste trying to raise its status does it to publicly announce its uping the game in its food habits. *


Getting the crap out of the body is of such high importance to the Indians, nowhere else has such high sales in tongue scrapers,  small devices for removing the furry bit off the tongue. Every day I am awoken to the morning chorus of phlem being hacked up and expelled from the body by my many neighbours. Rickshaws have stickers proclaiming “Do not spit, it spreads TB” and yet spitting is commonplace.


The general ethos is: Get this crap out of my body and onto the street where it belongs. Shift this crap out of my house, it does not matter where, as long as it isn’t in my house and is not polluting me with its impurity.



·          Ref page 35, The Indians, a portrait of a people by Sudhir Kakar and Katharina Kakar


Note: Caste is not what it used to be in the good old days of the Raj, where the British Empire were laughing because it had a work force in place to do every possible job and nobody moaned because it was their place in life to do every possible job. But it still lingers in more subtle ways. I am sure I will find plenty of examples to question as this trip continues.


Remember “Use Colin, it cleans, it shines, it gets the crap  out of your house and raises your social pecking order”.



Indians find it difficult to say a frank ‘No’ to requests they are unable or unwilling to grant.  *


This is a phenomenon that I have encountered many a time on my travels in the sub continent. It most commonly arises when I am asking for bus times. A typical conversation will go something like.


“Excuse me, what time does the bus leave for such and such”

“Oh that will be 8.30” with a certain amount of head wagging.


Not convinced I ask somebody else.


“Excuse me, what time does the bus leave for such and such”

“Oh that will be 7.30” with a certain amount of head wagging.


Still not convinced.


“Excuse me, what time does the bus leave for such and such”

“Oh you have missed the last bus, there it goes now” with a certain amount of head wagging.


Ok, so maybe I should learn the language, then I could read a timetable, a fair cop. But if you don’t know, tell me, it is far more productive than just pulling a random figure out of the air.


The other thing that amuses me is that you will get the direct answer to the question that was asked. For instance, if I say “Is there an ATM down here” and indicate down the road. I will receive the answer “Oh yes” with more indicating down the road.


Anyway, 2 miles of blistering heat later, I come across the sodding ATM, only find that it has run out of rupees. Walking back the way I have come I discover that there is an ATM literally yards away from where I initially asked, in the other direction. But that is not what I asked. I indicated the direction and everything why on earth would I expect somebody to counter my request and say “Oh no, that one is 2 miles away, it is near a casino and always runs out of rupees, why not use that one just over there”.


The expression “Be careful what you ask for, because you just may get it” comes to mind.


It appears that these phenomenon exist because of the cultural obstacles in giving or receiving negative feedback. The preservation of relationships being the primary principle governing the actions within an interpersonal situation.


It all comes down to saving face by not admitting ignorance and does not introduce any negative vibes in the fleeting relationship that just happened.


I actually love this phenomenon. It is so much more fun than saying “I have no idea what you are talking about” or “I haven’t got a clue” – just make something up, complete random drivel – brilliant.


Colin Laidlaw doctorate in Astro Physics here I come.



·          Ref page 19, The Indians, a portrait of a people by Sudhir Kakar and Katharina Kakar



With a tag line like that I am sure I could do copy for the Sun newspaper.


The rain has not stopped now for 5 days running. The roads are flooding and everyone has left the office early before the tide turns. The rain goes between a light shower and heavy downpour with little reprieve in between.


Strange, skinny, worms are sneaking under my hotel room’s door and creep across the tiled floor, in the way that worms on a mission to survive do, only to be found in the morning as dried up husks of a worm. I have to question whether to shoo them outside or flush them down the toilet. Either way death awaits these least noble, but necessary, creatures. I prefer to allow their fate to be dictated my their desire to survive and the shooing seems a far more apt approach.


Mosquitoes on the other hand, well any Buddhist inkling goes out the window. These blood suckers flourish in this weather and were born to die. Unfortunately, they are not of the sluggish, hang around on the walls, variety here. Once you spot them, they have vanished. Where do they go? I envisage a nightclub for mosquitoes, where Laura Ashley is the fashion and blood of Laidlaw is the Red Bull and vodka of choice.


I saw a snail the size of house, well a large snail’s house anyway. The thing could fill your hand. I also saw a dog chasing a huge centipede.


The rains bring out all sorts of creatures. I wonder how many people are injured from slipping up on worms or tripping over snails. How many dogs receive a nasty sting on their nose and how many toes are stubbed chasing that illusive mosquito.


Please do not allow me to be reincarnated as a mosquito……..floral dresses are not my thing……


Will the rains ever stop?



Commuting in Bombay is hardcore. London during rush hour has nothing on this. Firstly, to get on the train you realize why God invented elbows. There is no consideration for people getting off the train, it is every man for themselves. I say every man, because women get their own carriage, and I imagine it is the same process for them. I say carriage, but what I really mean is a sweaty, stinking, human, cattle wagon.


So once on, and you are comfortably crammed and jostled against your sweaty fellow man, the only thing you can think about is who is rifling your pockets at that very moment. Lets face it they are all blagards and scallywags your bigoted colonial gene cries out.


The lucky commuters hang out the door and take in the air, which is a pulsating sine wave between urine, vomit, excrement and dead dog. The railway line is home to thousands and the tracks – well if you didn’t have a toilet where would you go.


So then there is the issue of getting off. This requires more planning than D day. At least 3 stops before your stop you need to be making your way towards daylight. However, you must contend with the people that, cunningly, have the same idea as you. Furthermore, you must also contend with elbow wielding people that believe it is their god given right to get on the train.


Often, at particularly popular stops, a mini riot breaks out as the masses ejaculate onto the platform like the sperm from a Blue Whale. I saw one guy with henna died hair (A topic within itself), repeatedly striking a fellow passenger because he dare be in his way, before marching off towards the proverbial Blue Whale egg.


Beware the masses, for when they act as one, they loose the rational thought of the individual. 












Free yoga in the meditation room the sign purported. Ok, so I do a bit a Yoga, a bit of Ashtanga a bit of Hatha, a bit of this could not hurt. The meditation room was in fact a room in a nursery, it’s walls adorned with poorly painted effigies of Mickey and Minnie Mouse and at one end of the room  a shrine covered in boxes of cakes and the effigy of Shri Mataji Nirmala Devi. A tad more spiritual than her American counterparts or so I am led to believe. Shri Mataji is the guru for Sahaja yoga meditation. The clientèle, a bunch of guys in their 70s, a smattering of house wives and this lanky white guy, yours truly. Hmm, I should have got out then, but heh it was free. However, I could not see much of what I call yoga happening in this crammed space.


So after a brief introduction I am placed on the concrete floor and sit through an hour and half of chanting, odd hand movements and a poor tape recording of Shri Mataji herself, complete with background traffic noise. Now meditation has never been my strong point, and my mind begins to wander. Have they cleared copyright on Mickey Mouse, is it safe for my leg to go to sleep for this long without gaining deep vain thrombosis, can the anus really get pins and needles, what are the cakes doing there. I am then prodded by one of the old guys, because my hand posture isn’t right.


After this agonizing torment we carry out a ritual of rubbing left and right hands above our heads and are asked if we feel hot or cold emanating from our foreheads. And I tell you what, my right hand felt warmth and my left felt cold. Spooky, have I just experienced some spiritual awakening or was it the location of the fan behind me. We are then told to focus on the effigy of Shri Mataji and our minds will clear. And again for the briefest of moments I feel it, for the briefest second my mind is not fixated on the cakes.


We then carry out some more chanting and the cakes are distributed. A collection of nut things, marzipan and sugary string. If I come again, I will bring a lovely Battenberg or some of Mr Kipling’s finest selection that I so used to enjoy on Sunday evenings in front of the Antiques Road Show.


A lovely bunch of people, with a good selection of sweet products, but i don’t think Sahaja yoga meditation is for me. I read once that the purpose of doing yoga is to gain the ability to remain in the same position for a long time. Well I love yoga, but my butt is just too bony for sitting still for an hour and half. on a concrete floor. 


It has entered my mind to take the opportunity to try any spiritual session, with whichever guru there is. I am not really fussy which guru, any will do.  As long as I bring a pillow and they provide cake. if you like cake.



That heat thing, now that bugs me.







Mumbai 17.07.09


At first sight Mumbai, or Bombay as most of my, Indian generation prefer to call it, is a city full of dirt and filth. Its air thick with pollution from the gridlocked roads, piles of stagnant rubbish, fish, and an overflowing sewage system. The humidity is suitably graded to open the pores and ensure as much of this filth enters the body as is possible. Breathing is not good enough to ensure you have a healthy dose of your fellow, 20 million, compatriots.


On a second look though, Bombay, Mumbai to the younger generation, truly is a city full of dirt and filth. Its air thick with pollution from the gridlocked roads, piles of stagnant rubbish, fish, and an overflowing sewage system. However, all this shit comes from somewhere and it is this 20 million people and there extremities of existence that gives Bombay its character.


Because of its massive population, Bombay’s accommodation is terribly overpriced and of a suitably low standard. Four story apartment blocks, be speckled from concrete fatigue and a mold that is indigenous to concrete buildings be speckled with concrete fatigue, adorn the middle class suburbs and resemble something from a film where all humanity has died and the wildlife is re gaining its ground. A film, probably starring Charlton Heston, if Charlton Heston could star in any more apocalyptic visions of humanity.


If you are not lucky enough to live here, then it is the slums for you. Shanty towns, or zopadpatti, made out of the flotsam and jetsam of modern human existence. A thousand rupees a month rents you a pile of rusting corrugation and frayed tarpaulin with no water, electricity or sanitation. And they are the lucky ones, for the rest it is the street. A piece of  cardboard is your home. This is not like London or any other Metropolitan city where homelessness is seen as something that happens to the unfortunate few. This is homelessness on a grand scale and is a way of life for many of the workers within the city. The chances are, are that the man that is serving you your plate of dhal, roti, thalis or Domino Pizza spent the night huddled in a doorway on that very same pizza box. It is life here, pure and simple.


I guess this is the point whereby I am supposed to say something like: I will never complain again about the aircon being too cold, or that there was a pubic hair in the shower, or there was a smidging too much salt in the soup. But I will, why lie to myself for my own brief sense  of altruistic empathy. My god that would make me feel at one with humanity for about 20 seconds, 20 seconds before I go into a hotel and complain about the soup being too cold, too much salt in the shower and a pubic hair in the aircon.


It doesn’t matter who we are or where we are at, we just can’t accept that things could possibly be ok.


How dare somebody else have the audacity to infiltrate my concept of a good social standing by shedding a hair from their nether regions, while rigorously washing with inferior soap and the management just turned a blind eye. God forbid!! 

Everybody is now aware that I am leaving this country. The dust has settled. The plan is building. But why on earth is everybody being so nice.

Not a day passes without hearing people say “It is a brave move”, “Good on you, break away from the corporation”, “What an opportunity”. Pats on the back and encouraging words are the norm. Even Company Directors that would not normally give a toss are suddenly interested in where I am going, and dare I say, who I am.

A vale of tension has been lifted. Everything is becoming clear. But then here lies the problem. Even within my job I actually feel positive about it. Maybe I do provide some service,  greater than just being a number, or a cog, or a numbered cog to that matter.

Maybe this though is the pangs before the question that any soul in this position must ask itself: “What the bloody hell are you up to”. 

It is the test phase. When I am forced to question my own existence and come up with the answer “You know what, I’m doing alright, why do I want to change anything”.  Why not stay in my normal safe existence, and if I worked hard at it I could be cynical of all things foreign, I could become a Bigot so that everything has a position stabled nicely below me and why not even become a racist and join some nationalist party with better flags than the flags of other nationalist parties. Why not just stay at home and have a cup of tea and wear jumpers.

I am currently reading Shantaram by Gregory David Roberts. A great novel and interesting provider of insight into Indian culture and its ways.

This is a quote that intrigues me (P367) “When we act even in the best intentions, when we interfere with the world, we always risk a new disaster that mightn’t be of our making, but that wouldn’t occur without out action”.

This quote is relevant to my interest, and to a certain degree, concerns about charity work.

I would like to place myself in a situation whereby I am helping those who most need it. But here lies the problem – if you educate and help people and increase their chances of opportunity then what if these opportunities do not exist. All then you have done is provide a false sense of hope.

A false sense of hope is a dangerous concept. It can lead to apathy, drug abuse, violence etc. This is something that I must keep aware of and will be one of the biggest challenges surrounding the charity aspect of my trip.

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