Mumbai Public Transport (yes again!), being on the radio & why trains are a metaphor for the world.

 

Any of you who have followed my blog for a while will know I like talking about public transport – maybe because I spend so much of my time on it – maybe I’m just weird.

Yes I know, I hear you, why not take OLA share? However, trains get you places faster, are considerably cheaper for the daily commute, plus I get car sick, hate AC set to Arctic and am socially awkward (not to mention the time OLA share took two hours for a twenty minute journey). So happily each day I plug my headphones in, bury my head in a book if there’s space, another person’s armpit if not, and chalo on the train.

See how I refrained from calling not one single OLA driver a moron in that paragraph? The other day however, I did not have the same self restraint when it came to the Mumbai local. After yet another irritating experience on the train I let rant on social media, requesting some good retorts I can give back in perfect Hindi to the aunty train mafia. The response was overwhelming. Many people gave their sympathy, offered support, were shocked, angry, etc. I even had a friend who works in radio ask if I would come and do an interview on the subject!

I was taken aback as really the experience, whilst annoying, hadn’t left me especially deeply traumatised. Then a thought struck me -others, less thick skinned than myself might have been.

What if you were a young girl going to college for the first time and you found yourself having to do daily death defying leaps onto the approaching train (necessary  if you want any chance of not being trodden on, elbowed and having your slippers kicked off as you try to enter)? What if you were just starting in a job and taking your first train and dared to take a seat ‘reserved’ for another lady by her friends in ‘their’ carriage?

 

Image pilfered from Pallavi Jain – check out her brilliant art and give her some paise here

What if you were so very, very ill you couldn’t fight your way onto the train to get a seat that day, so asked, very politely mind, to take the ‘fourth seat’ and got brazenly ignored, then shouted at, for trying not to fall off the zero cm of space that no one had bothered to shift even a tiny bit to give you? And then got gossiped about in front of your face by the ladies you have to see every day on your morning commute, while they all pass cake around thinking it is all very funny like the time they trod on you while you were on your hands and knees in the train doorway trying to retrieve your shoe from the edge of the platform (again). Hilarious.

Ok well that last bit was me. I’m over it now. So far all sounds a bit like a school bus with a bully problem? Over lunch at work I heard much worse stories – a friend who had her glasses broken, yet more shoe losses, purse thefts, cat fights, people not being allowed by others to board trains or get off trains, people being pushed off moving trains, people screaming for their lives as they hang out of moving carriages whilst others refuse to go inside further, old ladies being dragged along the platform by their dupattas and one lady of 55 died in Borivali jumping off a moving train, being dragged underneath it. The very worst story by far was of a lady who sadly passed away. She was beaten up by a (female) train gang after refusing to give up her seat – she had given birth only a few days previous. No one was caught.

So every rush hour traveler knows as a rule, the ladies carriage is worse than the mens, never to take the Virar train (unless you are going to Virar) and where to stand if you want to have any chance in hell of getting off at your stop. Most commuters, including myself generally know how to fight through the whole experience. But what ****SHOCK**** if we stopped fighting for a minute and decided to help each other through this daily assault course? Fighting to get on a train happens even when there is plenty of space and plenty of time before a train leaves. Why? Is it really the highlight of these people’s days that they got a morning seat on the local train, risking their own and other’s lives to do so? Why do civilised ladies suddenly become animals, all over 30 square cm of plastic seat?

It struck me that the local train is like a microcosm for the world. People claim their territory and try to keep it from newcomers by forming gangs. In 2008 the state of Maharastra saw violent attacks on migrants from North India. We all know about the ongoing clashes in Kashmir. I look at my country of origin and see the anti-migrant aftermath of the Brexit vote- and lets not even start on what is happening in America! There is a lot of talk internationally about ‘the great evil’ of economic migrants and how we need armies and walls to keep them out (along with the refugees). This talk makes me both angry and befuddled. If you travel a great distance and suffer a great hardship to be able to work, then you are likely to do just that when you get there. More hard working people in the community + more money in the local economy = better infrastructure and welfare, all with the added bonus of cultural diversity, which can lead to the better understanding of each other so we can all live in blissful harmony. In theory. Of course it depends on the honesty and competence of who is in charge and the influence of the media on popular opinion. I think though it is safe to say that in most cases, if these migrants get wherever they are headed and find nothing, they are more than likely to go somewhere else – because they want to work! Anyone who argues they are here to take your job – I second the guy above (replace English with whatever applicable language). Conclusion, territorial behaviour and isolationism = bad, migration and diversity = good. Anyone in charge who tells you otherwise is more than likely blaming migrants for their own shortcomings in governance and/or trying to control using fear.

I digress. So back to the radio. Initially I dismissed the request as rather funny and no thanks, not a chance, no way in hell basically. Whilst a lot of people would jump at the chance to be live on the airwaves, I work behind the scenes in production for a reason – I’m actually pretty shy. Then I learnt about the motives for asking me on the show – noble ones of generally getting people to be nicer to each other and making the train a safer place for all, so I agreed. Especially after I had read the inspirational article of this lady who stood up to train bullies and recalled once being brave enough to go on BBC Radio 2 to speak up in defence of squatters.

However, the night before I got cold feet when I heard it was to do with a film release Atithi in London (Guest iin London). There is a saying in India ‘atithi devo bhava‘ which translates as ‘guest is god.’ It rings well as Indian culture is renowned for its wonderful hospitality (and tendency to feed guests as many biscuits and cups of chai as possible). I didn’t want to give the impression that I felt that as a foreigner, I was a guest and should be treated as such, as god – after all I live here, work here, have family here, pay tax here and consider Mumbai my home (as much as any other migrant). The producer assured me this would not be the case and I took the plunge.

The interview was with the very sweet and down-to earth RJ Archana, someone who is genuinely trying to make a difference in the world. In amongst sharing train stories we talked about how we are all equal on the train- and not in a ‘some are more equal than others’ kind of way! Everyone should look out for each other and bullying should not be tolerated – especially in the case of grown men and women who should know better! We should extend the ‘guest is god’ mentality outside of our homes and to all the strangers we meet every day, on every train, from every state, from every country. Being nice to each other on the local train maybe a far cry from achieving universal equality and world peace, but it’s a good start.

You can watch a video which includes some of  the edited interview here.

You can see RJ Archana preparing for her very own trip on a Mumbai local train here.

And you can listen to her show Mon-Sat 7am-11am on Radio City.

http://www.newscrunch.in/2017/03/mumbai-man-bullied-local-train-fights-back-facebook-video.html

http://afternoondc.in/city-news/women-bullies-on-radar/article_189512

http://www.arre.co.in/people/the-seat-mafia-of-mumbai-locals/

http://www.dnaindia.com/mumbai/report-rough-times-for-train-bullies-1055727

http://www.asianage.com/mumbai/rpf-brings-train-bullies-right-track-357

http://www.mid-day.com/articles/cops-must-come-down-hard-on-train-bullies/15532186

http://www.thehindu.com/news/cities/mumbai/news/Virar-train-gang-beats-up-short-distance-passenger/article14512188.ece

http://mumbaimirror.indiatimes.com/mumbai/other/woman-falls-from-crowded-local-train-dies/articleshow/56011122.cms

http://indianexpress.com/article/cities/mumbai/deaths-due-to-fall-from-overcrowded-mumbai-local-trains-go-up-reveals-rti/

https://www.nyoooz.com/news/mumbai/563233/govt-to-explore-options-for-maratha-reservation/

 

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Animal Rescue

Meet Pie the kitten. My daughter rescued her from a pile of rubbish outside a hospital. The vet said she was only about ten days old. Our beautiful Russian friend had spotted her hanging around with a mama cat and litter of kittens who were several months older and rescued her out of the traffic a few times, where disorientated she had wandered into a busy road.

Pie’s rescue was her not-so-evil plan; she already has so many rescued animals in her house that her husband has basically banned her from getting any more. She was babysitting my daughter while I was at Hindi class and happened to ‘show’ her the kittens. When I picked up my daughter we went for ice-cream which inevitably led us past the pile of rubbish and kittens. Looking down at the little lost kitten and my daughter’s trembling lip, pleading ‘we can’t just leave him here – he will die’ I knew there was only one thing to do. Thus kitten had the rickshaw journey of his life and my housemate had a phone call that started ‘please don’t be cross but…..’

After a long night picking around fifty fleas off the poor kitten and trying to get some milk in via a kid’s medicine syringe, the next day was a rollercoaster. We took Pie to the vet who confirmed he was in fact a she and needed kitten formula milk. We dropped her home and set off on the scooter to buy some. By the time we returned the kitten was limp and floppy, her tongue hanging out and eyes rolled back. We rushed her back to the vet’s and there followed a feline version of a scene from Casualty. Pie was put on a drip and given oxygen whilst being injected with all kinds of medicines and warmed up with a hair dryer.

Several hours later the head vet came in and was told “chances bahut come.’ I understood the hindi (chances are very less) and tried to prepare my daughter for the worst. I think the severity of the situation was somewhat lost on my four year old who was apparently ‘getting bored.’ Still, I thought I would spare her the trauma of seeing her new pet die and took her out for chaat and ice-cream. When we came back we were very pleasantly surprised – Pie was awake and staggering around like a tiny furry drunk. We took her home and I spent the night giving her rehydration salts every two hours and refilling the hot water bottle she was sleeping on.

The vets were wonderful – they were so shocked that our little street urchin Pie had survived that they treated her for free. It is wonderful to see such genuine compassion and dedication and now they are our vets for life!

A few months later we have a naughty, mischievous and very cute new member in the family. She has even stolen the heart of my cat-hating housemate and spends most of the time wrestling with her my little pony fluffy toy and viciously attacking shoes or flat on her back on my lap.

Pie is the second animal we rescued, the first was a dog I found half dead outside Matunga Road station. As I sat with his head in my lap, waiting for the animal ambulance to come and take him to the animal hospital in Dadar I had some varied reactions from the public. Many stopped to ask me what on earth I was doing and when I explained ‘animal rescue’ many commended me, but more than half thought it was hilarious and some even tutted and gave me disgusted looks. The heroes of the hour were some school kids who helped guide the ambulance men who couldn’t understand my accent and terrible Hindi.

I named the dog Matunga after the station and paid for his treatment and went back to visit him and take him for walks with my family. I vowed to find him a home. I was then struck down with fever and illness (so much for karma!) and missed the call from the hospital saying he was fit and they were releasing him back in the same spot I found him. He’s still there outside the station – I see him often and always bring him food and water, always getting the same bemused looks from passers by. Sometimes he follows me to the train and it breaks my heart. Now his fur has grown back and he is fussy about what brand of biscuits he eats so I guess he is not doing too bad.

Pie is soon to get neutered – she had her first heat and spent the nights howling out the window ‘come and get me boys!’ During this episode new neighbours moved into the flat next door. They left the very same night claiming the house was haunted! I did wonder if it was Pie’s cries for a mate that they mistook for a ghoul!

Everyday I see so many stray animals. It seems the people who are most kind to them are the humans who are also sleeping on the streets and the building watchmen – in return the cats chase away the rats and the dogs stand guard at night.

However, there are also some wonderful organisations in Mumbai who are making a difference. If you are still unpersuaded by my cute ball of feline fluff to adopt a stray then take a look at some of the links below – you can always donate or even go walk a dog or two at a weekend (be warned though – I bear no responsibility if you fall in love!)

http://www.bombayspca.org

https://www.facebook.com/groups/yoda.mumbai/

http://www.amtmindia.org

http://www.karunaforanimals.org

http://www.idaindia.org

plus a great list of helpline numbers in this blog: http://www.headsupfortails.com/blog/emergency-contact-numbers-for-animals-birds-mumbai/

Mumbai (un)Public Transport part 3

my Sunny Scootoni as modeled by a random man

I’ve written previously about my experiences on the Mumbai public transport system. Now I would like to share with you my newfound love, my daily joy in sunny yellow, my savior from traffic jams, chore rickshaw drivers and being pretty much beaten up getting on and off local trains – introducing Sunny Scootoni – my sexy, Italian and rather stylish scooter.

She’s daring, a fast woman in bike form with matching retro yellow helmet. She doesn’t care how loud you beep your horn or if you are on a noisy massive Enfield because you can just eat her goddamn dust at 5mph stuck in a queue of two-wheelers on the side of the highway. No you are not jumping ahead in front of this lady – where are your manners? What happened to chivalry?!

I know she is a little dangerous and my mother does not entirely approve of her but I love her and I hope we will never part. I look forward to waking up to her each morning and coming home from work on her each evening. All the family love riding on her.

I’ve ridden scooters before when I stayed in Goa but always been a little terrified of the Mumbai infamous crazy traffic. Most ex-pats I know have cars with drivers to ferry them safely through the chaos (nothing wrong with this – living the dream!) Not having the option of this luxury coupled with depressing journeys in OLA cabs watching the two wheelers zip around me stationary in the traffic jam there was nothing for it but to take a deep breath and ride on regardless! My journey time has halved and I’ve not only become accustomed to but adept at weaving my way through the gridlock.

For others brave or crazy enough to drive/ride in this city here are the unofficial rules of the Indian roads:

1. Lane discipline is not really a concept and undertaking is totally OK.
2. Mirrors are also not really a concept. I saw a lady the other day who had chosen to gaffer tape carrier bags over hers because it was raining or because she was a lunatic, I’m not entirely sure. Instead of relying on your fellow drivers to see you in their mirrors, it is customary to beep the shit out of your horn when overtaking and take responsibility for your own life by making it’s presence heard.
3. Many places in town have no horn beeping signs. These are largely ignored.
4. Horn beeping is not considered rude or something done in anger as it is in many other places in the world. However it is often rude and done in anger. It is also really annoying if you live anywhere near a road until your brain creates a natural filter to ignore it.
5. Right of way is who pulls out first in front of the other, unless you are a bus.
6. At busy times traffic cops will direct traffic at various junctions. They are largely ignored just as traffic lights are.
7. Helmets must be worn by law but only if you are the driver – your wife, sister, four children and goat that are also traveling on your bike need not wear one.
8. Paise gets you everywhere in matters involving traffic cops.
9. Pot holes, pot holes everywhere. And cows. And pedestrians with death wishes.
10. The existence of the pavement is another thing that is not really a concept, certainly not as an area for walking on anyway. Setting up a shop selling pani puri, corn specialist treatment, place to tie up your goat/cow, or housing four generations of a family under a single piece of tarpaulin on the other hand….
11. Transvestites clapping at traffic lights is a common sight, as are people selling all sorts of plastic crap and hot nuts, people with no legs on skateboards and small skinny children with big pleading eyes. They all want your money and they all break my heart when I see them.

Sick as a Street Dog

In times of late I have not been well at all. Having suffered (and survived!) in the past from the infamous Indian ‘Delhi belly’ I have developed, quite proudly, guts of steel. During my last stint living in India I got sick once- not a bad record for two years! I definitely found myself suffering basically never from the seasonal colds and flu viruses that the UK is plagued with. I found the extra sunshine and healthy diet (due to abundance of cheap fruit and veg) and addition of health giving spices was eliminating the experience of being bed-ridden from my life.

This time around however the story has been very different. It started with a stomach infection or sorts. I went to the doctors. I relayed my symptoms to him and he immediately thrust two pills into my hand. ‘Take these now.’ he commanded. My refusal to take the random medicine and daring to question what it was and what it was for dented his ego somewhat. ‘Doctors are like gods here,’ explained a friend, ‘this guy is respected all around the area and people queue to see him because he is the best.’ I begged to disagree as the doctor had promptly prescribed me some random medicine, which upon looking up was not only completely unrelated to my ailment but I was also allergic to!

One week later I was still sick and sought the help of a gastroenterologist. He went on to prescribe no less than five different types of medicine, some of which made me feel high as a kite but totally did cure me… Until I got some other horrific tonsillitis/flu/fever/sinus infection. Thanks antibiotics, my immune system has totally gone to pot! A week after recovering from that delight I once again have tonsils the size of laddoos.

India, for all its culture of Ayurveda and holistic health seems to very happy to put blind faith in allopathic doctors. There seems to be a culture of taking antibiotics for everything and anything and rushing to the doctor at the appearance of the smallest sniffle. However, maybe it’s a wise thing to seek medical help with the threat of Dengue and Malaria ever lurking (I’m half convinced maybe I had mild Dengue). However, I do worry that the knowledge we now have about the overuse of antibiotics and the development of antibiotic resistant ‘super-bugs’ has not quite filtered down to the Indian GP or indeed the common man.

My Indian family and friends are totally caring and wonderful when it comes to looking after each other (and me!) when they are ill. I’m perhaps not as big a fan of seeing doctors and taking medicine as them but I know they have the best of intentions to help and looking after one’s health is considered very important in our family. I hope maybe I have learnt a little from them to take care of my health as a priority as well as some good home remedies. As always I hope I can give something back to them with a few of my home remedies.

Below are some useful links for home remedies to keep at bay the necessity to take antibiotics, as well as some articles on why we need to curb their use, in India especially ASAP. I’ve also put a link to a good site & project about Dengue prevention.

http://www.huffingtonpost.in/open-magazine/how-india-became-the-antibiotics-capital-of-the-world-and-wasted/

http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/life-style/health-fitness/health-news/Overuse-of-antibiotics-harming-Indias-fight-against-TB-Lancet/articleshow/53858713.cms

http://www.ipsnews.net/2014/08/india-a-race-to-the-bottom-with-antibiotic-overuse/

http://www.ayurvedichomeremedies.net

http://easyayurveda.com/ayurvedic-home-remedies-2/

https://www.breakdengue.org/toolkits/dont-get-dengue/

The Gods That Ate Everything

The last week or two in Mumbai we have seen a lot of celebrations (and a lot of chaos!) in the streets. Ganesh Chaturthi has filled the streets with processions of drummers and dancers as bappas were paraded towards their final destinations to be immersed in water. Eid has filled the streets with proud men with plump goats on strings decorated with tinsel.

The whole affair is driving my friend crazy. He is a firm believer that religion should be celebrated in private, kept off the streets and out of people’s faces. He feels that the whole show and pomp put on by the competing revelers is dissolving the meaning behind the festivals, rendering them a pointless, noisy menace.

Me on the other hand, I love a good street party. I love the colour, music, atmosphere and community spirit. I think it is important to keep cultures and traditions alive plus I always welcome the prompt to explore the deeper meanings and lessons to be learnt from these traditions.

However, several weeks in, suffering from a fever bed bound, the cacophony of the endless festivities outside was too much even for me. Poor Ganesh with his large elephant ears must have himself been half deafened.

A particular highlight of Ganpati celebration is the troops of drummers that are accompanied by a keyboard player. The keyboard is often amplified through tinny-screechy sounding tannoy speakers strapped to the top of a rickshaw or car. You can be certain that whatever they keyboard player is playing (seemingly random notes that occasionally bear some resemblance to popular Bollywood songs from the 1970s) will have absolutely no correlation with the accompanying drummers. The dancing public seem to be blissfully unaware/ indifferent to this dissonance and continue to whirl around, let off crackers and shout ‘Morya!’ with great enthusiasm. My head felt like it was going to explode.

“So now you understand?” says my friend, “the whole affair is about show-off; who has the biggest Bappa covered in the most glitter, spent the most money, hired the biggest troop of drummers, put up a mobile soundsystem. Last year there were many complaints because the DJs were playing trashy songs like ‘I’m sexy and I know it’ and ‘Gangnam Style.’ What has that got to do with religion? And with Eid – it is about coming on the road and showing off who has the fattest goat. It used to be that the meat was given to the poor but that rarely happens anymore. They just shit everywhere and cause a nuisance all for ego not god. Why can’t people keep religion in their own homes?”

While, despite my headache I did not entirely agree with him, our conversation got me thinking about a story I had read our daughter about Ganesh and Kubera. Here is my retelling of it in my own words:

Kubera was the god of wealth and he was a massive show-off. He loved to put on the most lavish parties to prove his status as the richest (and therefore most important) god around. He had the finest wines, the most gourmet food and the most opulent décor. All that was lacking to complete the perfection was the caliber of the guests.

Kubera knew what he had to do – he had to persuade Shiva and Parvati, the heads of all the gods to be his guests. He would spend so much money on them that everyone in the whole world would admire him!

Off he went to Kailash with golden invitations and a heart full of pride at his genius idea. Shiva and Parvati were busy however, and in their place sent their son Ganesh, assuring Kubera that he would be a most fitting guest for the occasion.

Undeterred, Kubera pulled out all the stops and showered his guest with compliments and expensive canapes.

“I want the main course!” Demanded Ganesh.

Kubera presented an enormous spread on a mile long banquet table. Ganesh gobbled it up in ten seconds flat. “More!” the god demanded, “I’m still hungry! I will tell my parents what a stingy miser you are not feeding me enough!”

Kubera was starting to get worried. Ganesh had eaten all the food in the palace so he sent his men out to get all the food in the city and the surrounding villages. The village people cried as Kubera’s men took away their food. “What will we feed our children?” They cried.

When all the food in all the land was presented at the palace once more Ganesh swallowed it all, without even chewing. “Still hungry!” shouted Ganesh, his belly filling half the hall.

“But Ganesh!” pleaded Kubera, “I have no food left!”

“You miser! You peasant! I thought you were rich!” Exclaimed Ganesh before starting to eat up all the guards and servants and anyone else who crossed his path. “Next Kubera I am going to eat you!” Shouted Ganesh.

Kubera ran away in fright. Outside he saw the starving people. “Oh great rich king!” they pleaded, “help us as you are so wealthy and generous!”

Kubera ran faster, he could not bear to admit he had nothing and was now as poor as them. There was only one place left to go – back to Kailash to ask for help.

When Shiva and Parvati saw Kubera’s panicked face they laughed. “How silly you are,” said Parvati kindly, “you made the mistake of thinking that people will respect and admire you more if you show off your wealth. Us enlightened gods know the truth however, if you want to impress and honor us then it does not matter how big or small your offering is – what matters is that it is done with humility and love. We have no use for these offerings of food and material riches so afterwards they should be given to the people who need them. Only then will we be satisfied.”

Kubera knew then what he had to do. He went back to Ganesh and knelt before him.

“Oh lord Ganesh! I have nothing left to offer you to demonstrate my wealth. I found these few grains of rice on the kitchen floor. It is not much but I offer them now to you to show my respect for you. They are merely a token. What I really offer to you is my heart and myself as your humble servant and my thanks for all that is good. I offer my prayers that everyone else can be rich in happiness and never go hungry.”

Ganesh smiled and took the rice. “Now I am full. In fact I am too full!” And with that Ganesh opened his mouth and out came all the people, all their food and everything Kubera had fed Ganesh. Kubera was so grateful he used to food to put on a feast for all the poorest citizens of his kingdom and made sure that in the future if he ever held a party that everyone was invited, regardless of how rich or poor they were!

The End

I think this story teaches a valuable lesson. With my friend being a Hindu he celebrated Ganesh Chaturthi at home for three days. On the third day he took all the sweets and fruits he had offered down along with his Bappa and distributed the food to all the children who live on his road. When I say they live on his road I literally mean ON his road – in small shacks built from tarpaulin or just on the pavement. My daughter handed out the sweets and played with the children and finally understood why the sweets that had tempted her for days were not for her. Then we took his Bappa and immersed him in the purpose built pool at the end of the street where he could biodegrade and not cause any pollution. He bought him from a street-side craftsman as opposed to from a mall or supermarket and next year, inspired by a story I read last year we want to make a Bappa out of chocolate, immerse in milk and make chocolate milkshake for all the kids.

My Muslim friend at work told me how he would go home for Eid the following week and his family would take their goat to a special community place where after sacrifice, one third of the meat would be donated for the poor and needy with the remaining two thirds going to family and friends. He also mentioned how each year his family gives alms as part of a Muslim festival.

We have a duty as both individuals and the community to celebrate festivals, both religious and secular for the right reasons and in a responsible way for the environment and our neighbors. The solution is not banning public displays of religion, much as it would please my friend, but to look at the lessons those religions are trying to teach us and do our best to understand and abide by them.

Wishing you all a (slightly belated) happy Ganesh Chaturthi and Eid. !

Culture Clash: Boobies!

This incident, rather ironically happened to me during World Breastfeeding Week, so wishing all the mamas out there doing it, trying to do it and supporting those that can’t a belated happy World Breastfeeding Week! Find out more in the link below:

http://worldbreastfeedingweek.org

The reason it is ironic for me is I had a debate (read argument) with my Indian friend over a photo on social media of me breastfeeding. Now I’m British and he is Indian – I am totally happy to respect and adapt to his culture in regards to most things and take care to quiet my angry inner feminist to keep the peace (to a point whilst not-so-secretly fighting for social change obviously). However, this is something I feel rather strongly about and we have had to agree to disagree, both of us walking away with rather hurt feelings.

I won’t publish the offending picture here but what is shows is me in a hospital gown, moments after my daughter was born with the biggest smile on my face, gorgeous little newborn clasped to my breast and the tiniest bit of booby showing. This is the first picture taken of us together after she entered the world and it was taken by my dear friend Jo who was my birthing partner. It means a great deal to me and I should imagine her also.

However in the UK I have been an activist for the right of women to breastfeed in public, to remove the stigma and sexualisation of it. I feel there should be no shame, no requirement to cover up, no embarrassment. I don’t feel it should be kept ‘private’ any more than feeding a baby with a bottle or adults eating their lunch.

I have been assured that I am fighting a losing battle if I ever imagined this ‘lactivist’ movement will ever take root in India, that I should not push my foreign views on a country and society that is not my own, that covering up is not ‘a big deal’ etc etc. When in India I do indeed cover up to breastfeed and respect the culture here and quite frankly, I don’t want the attention. Yet I still feel I am betraying my own beliefs.

Here are just a few of the things I have been told regarding public, uncovered breastfeeding in India:

 ‘You wouldn’t walk down the street naked! Why is it ok to get naked just because you have a baby?’

‘It should be done in private!’ (what like in a public toilet? Yuk!)

‘It is something only labour class women do.’

‘Aren’t you ashamed that men might see your boobs?’

‘You should cover up so men don’t feel uncomfortable.’

‘It is unhealthy for the baby, they could get sick because of germs in the air.’

‘Most women breastfeed in India and they all cover so why is it such a big deal? it’s not like anyone is stopping them from breastfeeding?’

So I’m putting it out there to my Indian family, friends and readers (and anyone else in the world for that matter) that maybe the problem is not with the act or the photograph but with the attitude towards women and their breasts.

Breastfeeding is for everyone regardless of class. Breastfeeding is not about sex. Women don’t do it to tease men and be sexy. It is about a baby eating. It is not sexual. If you find breastfeeding sexual then you have some serious issues! And if you were eating would you want your face to be covered up by a stuffy sweaty bit of cloth? Bottles feeding vs breastfeeding is cleaner and builds the immune system of the baby – this is a scientific fact. Breastfeeding is not a ‘dirty’ bodily function like going for a shit so why suggest women to do it in private in the same place where you shit?

Being told to do it in private means shame.

Covering by force means shame.

Objectification of women means shame.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not suggesting the women of India burn their dupattas and should all refuse to cover. I’m not under any impression that things will change here anytime fast and I know it is not my place to tell anyone what to do or what not to do. In the same way I support women who choose to wear a hijab or the famed burkini. I support women who choose to cover. The point is it should be a choice and women should not be judged whatever their preference.

Anyway I will leave this all on a lighter note, with a very funny spoof film from India offering a solution to women who find tharki men constantly staring at their breasts. Enjoy!

A New Kidney for my Friend in India -HAPPY UPDATE!

It has been 32 weeks since I started my fundraising campaign to help my friend in India get a new kidney. After on operation that could not happen due to a problem with her back and a lot of praying and waiting, yesterday Filu had her operation. It was a very long ten hours but thankfully it was a success and she now has a new kidney!

You can read her story and view details of my campaign in my original post here:

https://anenglishwomaninmumbai.wordpress.com/2015/03/27/a-new-kidney-for-my-friend-in-india/

She is still unconscious – her sister messaged me this morning and said she will be in ICU for 3-4 days. I hope to go and visit her next week with my daughter or whenever they allow visitors. Please keep your thoughts and prayers with her and her family for a fast recovery.

I would like to extend a huge thanks to everyone who donated and supported this campaign and helped to make this possible. I am still collecting donations towards the post-operation medicine and a great big bunch of flowers which I hope to deliver to her when I visit so please share this update and if you can then any last donations will of course be appreciated!

Please click on the link below to get to the fundrazr campaign where you can still donate and see how much we have raised so far.

http://fnd.us/c/8xxs3/sh/d3vZef

Reverse Culture Shock

After a tearful goodbye at Mumbai’s flashy new airport I hobbled white faced onto the plane, doing my best to repress agonising stomach cramps whilst dragging my screaming toddler behind me. I could see the looks of “please god don’t let my seat be anywhere near that woman and her brat!” on the other passengers faces as I passed by. What a great start to my repatriation experience!

I had little or no desire to be back in England, however 40,000 feet in the air and sick as a dog with airline staff discussing whether they should land the plane and take me to hospital, I couldn’t get there fast enough! Luckily I had been prescribed some morphine and there no short supply of hot water bottles and hot drinks from empathetic air hostesses, so with plane still firmly in air and massive melodrama averted, our journey from hell commenced onwards.

After twelve hours, the highlights of which being a minor head injury acquired by my ferral-stampeding-up-and-down-the-aisle-toddler (the blood always makes it look worse than it is) and a drunk passenger emptying the best part of a bottle of wine into my hand luggage (goodbye clean nappies!) the whole ordeal was over. I didn’t even glance at the duty free (I must have been in bad shape!) and made a beeline with my leaning tower of suitcases into my parents arms and the chilly air of Heathrow’s arrivals lounge.

The first thing that struck me about England was it’s grey blandness. The sky was grey, the roads were grey, even the light was a murky grey. In contrast to the techi-colour vibrancy of India it was like I was viewing the world through the veil of a grubby net-curtain. I didn’t like it one bit.

Still it was good to be back in the parental bosom where I could convulse in comfort with invaluable childcare assistance. My long-term health problem that had caused such commotion on the aeroplane was finally getting see to thanks to the wonderful NHS. Calls, offers of help and moral support were flooding in from friends. Maybe England wasn’t so bad a place to be… Before long I found myself in London with a new job, flat and even a cat.

I had heard of reverse culture shock as a phenomena before, but nothing could have ever prepared me for it. At first it was the little things. I missed my bum washer! You would never think that you could miss Indian toilets but when presented with good old English loo roll as opposed to a refreshing jet of cleansing water, my whole bathroom experience just felt unhygienic!

Then there was money – English bank notes just didn’t seem real and seemed to have this magical quality of disappearing faster than seemed possible. I checked and there was no mysterious hole in my purse – stuff really was that expensive. I felt like crying every time I converted the price of things back to rupees in my head! The rent on my new flat was more than six times what I had been paying in Mumbai, yet my earnings were not even twice what I had been getting back there – it just didn’t seem to add up!

At home I continued to cook Indian food for myself and my daughter. I sorely missed all my comfort street food snacks – vada pav, behl puri, pani puri. I just couldn’t go back to a British diet of bland followed by stodge with a side helping of dull. Still it was good to be able to get cheap tins of baked beans.

At work I found myself thinking in Hindi when I wanted to direct crew to move flight cases or fly PA. At the childminders and at friend’s and family’s houses I had to explain that if my daughter asked for pani it meant she was thirsty and dudu meant she wanted milk- not that she needed the loo (doodoo is slang for poo in England!). It was surreal being able to understand what everyone was saying all the time!

Crossing the road in the UK is a completely different technique, as is driving and travelling by public transport (more about that later). I found I had picked up other Indian habits as well that I just couldn’t shake – wobbling my head (my current Indian boyfriend hates this but I just can’t help it!), abruptness and directness in conversation and answering the phone (there is a great article by an ex-pat I met in Mumbai on this: http://idiva.com/opinion-iparenting/are-we-bringing-up-a-generation-of-rude-kids/25757) and neither me nor my daughter, could get used to the amount of layers of clothes you need to wear to combat our British climate!

Everyone noticed my difficulties adjusting – strangers as well as people close to me. The smell of curry at work had been commented on more than once. There had been a few road rage incidents. I found myself talking incessantly about India to anyone who cared to listen (as well as a few who didn’t!) I began to question myself – was I just making a big deal out of nothing? After all, I had lived in England for a large part of my life. Was I clinging on to my Indian habits, even obsessing over them, not to mention adding unnecessary quantities of masala into my food, as a way of conserving some kind of connection with the country I had fallen in love with? Was all this symptomatic of the fact that I had not wanted to leave? I felt like a different person to the one who had lived in England before – was this my way of maintaining and advertising my position to the world around me as an ex-pat even though I could hardly call myself one? Enough of the self psychoanalysis – one thing was clear – I missed India and my life there terribly and had big doubts if I was ever going to, or wanted to, adapt back to life in England. So what was I going to do about it?

Here are a few links that ex-pats returning home may find useful:

http://www.internations.org/magazine/14-repatriation

http://www.transition-dynamics.com/reentry.html

http://internationalhrforum.com/2009/08/17/reverse-culture-shock-or-why-do-i-hate-being-back-home/

http://www.newcomersnetwork.com/information/repatriation_the_difficulties_of_returning_home_and_reverse_culture_shock_on_re-entry_from_expatriate_life.php

http://www.internations.org/magazine/repatriate-issues-and-company-support-15343

http://www.internations.org/magazine/reverse-culture-shock-15346

http://www.internations.org/magazine/going-back-home-easier-said-than-done-15338

http://www.indiamike.com/india/india-for-beginners-f122/you-may-be-missing-india-when-you-t2404/

Photoblog: Sound Engineering In India

So before my story takes me back across the pond here is a little photoblog with some of my favourite pics of shows I worked on in India as a sound engineer:

Sunburn, Mumbai, 2013

First Stop for the RedBull Tourbus! Wilson College Mumbai, 2013

Harley Davidson show, Mehboob Studios, Mumbai, 2013

NH7 Festival Pune, 2013

And in India we do this with our digital multicore!

It has all been too much for Savio and Ram!

Russel Peters, Bandra MMRDA ground, Mumbai, 2013

Shaan

India Bike Week 2013, Goa

Modi Rally, Mumbai Racecourse – too many delay stacks to count and more than a million very patriotic Indians!

Vandan – probably the most amazing percussion set-up I have ever seen!

Sleeping – a common theme on Indian shows!

Very posh wedding! Mumbai Racecourse, 2013

Sunburn, Mumbai, Racecourse, 2013

Nice to see Josh Wink again – bizarre reminiscing over the last time we met working on together in Cardiff some ten years back- bit of a different experience!

Jain Cultural event

Nicky Romero, Sunburn, Mumbai

Not something you would see on an EDM show in UK – an offering to the gods! Complete with coconuts, incense and flowers – a baba also came and blessed the show. The show was awesome…

Hands firmly in the air!

Cabling up K1, Indian style!

EVC, Ambay Valley, 2013

Yep, they had hot air balloon rides at this festival!

Zambhala Yoga Festival 2013, Goa

Admiring the K1 set-up for Supersonic festival Goa, 2013.

Love the sea of mobile phone lights – the new “lighters in the air!”

Bandra Bandstand, Mumbai – YouTube Awards

Setting up for EDM party in a hotel in Nashik.

The Sights and Sounds of Mumbai (part 1)

If you live in a city then you will almost certainly have come across the experience of living such a hectic life that you never have time to enjoy all of the things your hometown is so famed for – the sights and sounds and wonders that tourists flock to every day but to you in your cloud of daily commute and post-office urge to spend as much time glued to the sofa with your feet up, are all but invisible. 

When I finally made it to the National Park on the edge of Borivalli, I felt ashamed that I had lived so close for so long and not spent every second I could exploring every inch of this remarkable oasis place.

My good friends form England had come to visit, and being newly unemployed I had time to cram in as much tourist action as I could. Armed with google I set about the task of becoming a tourist in the city I had made my home and investigate the premier sight-seeing destinations. The Sanjay Gandhi National Park was top of my must-see list and after a short auto ride we found ourselves at its unassuming gates, boarding a bus bound for the famous Kanheri Caves.

There is more than a hundred of these caves to explore, built by the Buddhist monks who lived and worshipped there. Most of the caves are living quarters and while impressive are transcended by the first few congregational halls, flanked by carved statues that my young daughter was absolutely terrified of until she realised she could play the game of “statue” with them! 

So there we were, taking pictures, admiring the artistry and generally soaking up the timeless wonder of the place when an army of school-girls turned up screaming at the top of their voices as if Bollywood Star Shah Rukh was doing a strip tease just for them. What had got them all so excited? My daughter! If she hadn’t enjoyed it so much being passed around the near hysterical teenagers, having photos posed with and kissed and cooed over, I would have given them all a verbal slap round the face for scaring the crap out of me. However, I didn’t have the heart to ruin their fun. Even after all the time i have spent in India it still weirds me out that a blond curly haired toddler can produce such a reaction, even in full grown adults – I mean my daughter is cute don’t get me wrong, but she is a kid like any other. I worry about what it will be like when she goes back to the UK and she is no longer a public novelty and centre of attention, and conversely what the attention will do to her if we remain in India and she grows up with the stares and curiosity that I have become accustomed to and grown a naturally thick skin over.

Anyway other highlights of this day out included lotus flower covered lakesand duck shaped pedal boats, a really rubbish safari where we got to see some tigers basking in a dirty pond in an oversize cage (hmmmm) and some very friendly monkeys swinging through simply stunning scenery – I will let the photos speak for themselves but bear in mind nothing can do this place justice until you experience it for yourself – I would recommend just after monsoon when it will be a green tropical paradise!