Books, books

I always like to link the places I stay with books I read. I've read quite a few books during this past year in India, often using reading as other people have often refer to it – a mean to escape from your reality. Not that my reality was particularly gloomy over there, but retrospectively, my choice of books shows my need to connect to places outside of India. During the couple of months before my departure, I was eager to read novels by Indian authors, asking Indian friends about their favourite books, hoping to start grasping the subcontinent. I read a couple of them and arrived in India with a few books, all in English, most of them written by Indian authors. Until now, I haven't read them, even though my Indian colleagues have told me about their stories, their authors, their engagement with Indian politics or the rest of their work. And actually, I feel like reading them now, now that I'm not in India anymore, probably with some sort of nostalgia.

Oh yes, books. The ones I remember of at least, not that the other ones weren't good, but my mind is just blank now.

• The lacuna, The fall of giants and Purple hibiscus – three books chosen because I'd loved the previous ones

• The colour purple – a memory of my fellow sexigenflucka telling me about it when we decided to screen the film

• The road – a film I had heard of, Viggo Mortensen

• An equal music – a gift, and winter moments spent in London

• Le baron perché – steps in a philosophical novel, and in French

• Soleil, devant – souvenirs of high school literature classes, themes, characters, inspirations, when the author is behind each and every page

• Sputnik sweetheart – Haruki Murakami, from D, finally

• Reading Lolita in Tehran – building on Persepolis, a dive in the love of literature, new books to add to the list

• A case of exploding mangoes – beautifully constructed, good to read after some time spent in India

• When broken glass floats – horrible Khmer rouge regime

And also two books that I haven't read (and don't know if I will one day) but that have been with me this year – with a friend's name on the cover.

I'm now following Arthur Dent and Ford Prefect around the galaxy, trying to keep up but almost drowning in English humour.

The other side

Saturday 17 September, Shatabdi Express, Chennai-Bangalore, 5:27pm

I had an interesting weekend. Well, at least so far. It started yesterday afternoon. After a rushed lunch in office, Arpita and I jumped in an auto. Destination: Majestic railway station, Brindavan Express to Chennai leaving at 2:30pm. Train is dirty as hell, it's the beginning of a six hour journey in the happy company of our friends the cockroaches. Baby ones, and not so baby ones. Slightly freaky, a series of mini heart attacks, jumps and laughters. Good for keeping us awake to prepare our presentation of tomorrow, for the MobilePlus conference, where we present our paper on (drum rolls, pedantic title) 'Recasting the potential of mobile phones for gender equality', a mix of sociological analysis, enmeshed with development case studies and an apotheosis in the form of a political economy conclusion. Tataaaam.

Arrival in Chennai, humid is a weak word. And very warm welcome by Arpita's friends, dinner, sleep.

'Morning Chennai ! Tete dans le cul (excuse my French). Work, run-up of the presentation, and a confirmation: my English becomes lumpy, abandons me, when tired. Ha. Special breakfast: toasts with nutella dipped in coffee, yummm, can't remember the last time I had that. My English likes nutella.

Finally at the conference, Arpita and I, sleepy as hell, listening to the morning presentations. I pretty much look like an Indian, except for the skin colour, a typical foreigner working in an Indian NGO as they told me in office. What to do?! We don't know anybody in the conference, and it's good that way as we're not too confident (understand, prepared) to defend our paper. Most of the speakers seem to be from an information design background, and as it's co-organised by an Austrian institute, there are a few firangs (Hindi for white, slightly negative term that Deepika calls me affectionately) in the audience. Oh yes, the only person whom we have briefly met before is the moderator of our session who happens to be a funder of IT for Change from Delhi. Great. Suddenly, it's our panel. Breath in, breath out (yoga technique, thanks Sandeep). First presentation, not really listening to that guy talking about the design of the Indian 2011 census. Ok, our turn, speaking in English in front of an external audience, as soon as it starts, it's already over. Done, shaking a little, but done. The next presentation starts. Phet, the moderator/funder, cracks jocks, we giggle. We don't understand why we've been put in that session supposedly about mobile phones and communities, when one of the speakers talks about an iPhone application to reduce your energy consumption and to eat healthier. Oh well, whatever. End of session, two firangs come to talk to us, one of them is the iPhone one. And they mostly talk to me, not that much to Arpita. And again, there's that kind of complicity that exist between people from an assumed similar background in a foreign environment. 'Oh, you're coming from Belgium. So IT for Change is based in Belgium?' And even though I'm often tricked by that instinctive (but often mistaken) feeling of community and understanding with white people in India, this time, I feel way closer to, on the side of Indians working for similar goals as mines, miles away from the concerns of some iPhone owners. Yes, it has been hard to live in India, but it's not true I don't love India. I remember an article about a Western journalist's experience in India. Similarly to her, India has accepted me to some extent, and even though I find life here more than exhausting, I love the challenge, shouting with my six words of Hindi at rude auto drivers makes me proud, or using those same words to buy a dosa and a too sweet (but how delicious) coffee with Deepika at the 'dosa man' of our street, or giggling like three-year olds in office. All of that. But now that work is not worth staying any more, I quite look forward to settling a bit in Europe, hopefully somewhere where my flee market discoveries can find a place.

On the train. The train staff wears a waist-coat and a type of beret, they could be French, except for the chocolate skin. Nobody is sitting next to me. I can doze in peace. Yeay.

What Delhi did to me

I recently came back from a week in Delhi. Five days of intense work for a workshop IT for Change was organising, and then, three days of wandering around in Delhi, following the steps of Deepika, eating in her favourite places, buying in her favourite shops. 

And beyond that, Delhi allowed me to

Haha !

- get rid of a big part of my hair

- rediscover the joys of being a tourist and a backpacker

- eat some yummy North Indian food

- experience that 45° of dry heat is actually bearable, in spite of the frequent warnings of my colleagues, and their constant association between my white skin and heat stroke

Old Delhi

- realise with pleasure that having lived in India for the past eight months enables me to walk in old Delhi as easily as I walk in Bangalore, avoiding rickshaws and carts of different types, bargaining with auto drivers, looking like I know where I am going

- observe how some Indians are terribly uncomfortable with homosexuality - cf. a love scene in the film 'I am' during which the whole audience started giggling as I remember people giggling when I was 15.

- discover some of its marvels

Humayun's tomb - same architect as the Taj Mahal

Jama Masjid mosque

From above, on the top of the minaret

- confirm how most Indians actually like to be photographed, and absolutely enjoy seeing their photo afterwards

The cobbler, fixing my shoe, who even grinned when he saw his photo

And the lady who was smiling at me next to the cobbler

Flower garlands

 

Derniere recrue d'IT for Change !

Eh bien voilà, ça y est, on a passé le cap, on a adopté un chien ! Il s'appelle Lulu (prononcez Loulou) grâce à ma manie d'appeler bébés, amis et animaux Loulou. Donc, fait et acte, vote populaire, et voilà, il a été baptisé. Neha et moi sommes allés le faire vacciner donc maintenant, il n'est plus potentiellement dangereux, uniquement très poussiéreux et sans doute plein de puces. Ce chiot de cinq mois environ est donc la dernière acquisition d'IT for Change (et le résultat d'une semaine sans les boss où l'intensité de travail fut apparemment très élevée). Il est là pour nous accueillir le matin, de son fief où il roupille la plupart de la journée (vie de chien, haha) quand il ne gratte pas dans les parterres au grand malheur de Prasanna, l'homme à tout faire/à rescousse de l'ONG. Et cela nous permet à toutes d'être complètement gaga et de parler en langue ooouuuguidouguidou. L'idée, c'est de le gâter mais qu'il reste indépendant. C'est le plus mignon du quartier meme s'il est un peu con, avouons-le, car il n'aime pas les biscuits au chocolat ni le riz s'il n'est pas accompagné de lait. Soit. Il nous fait la fete quand on arrive au boulot, meme apres avoir été malencontreusement enfermé dans le bureau pendant le week-end passé. Fameux bordel quand on est arrivées lundi, et branle-bas de combat pour tout ranger avant que les boss n'arrivent ! Oups...

The Holi experience

Last Sunday, it was the Holi festival - the only Indian festival I had heard about before coming here, the one I had been waiting for. If I got it well (Indian friends, please, correct me), Holi is the celebration of the end of the winter, the day during which boys and girls can play together, breaking traditional gender roles and norms - something rather similar to our Carnaval and Mardi gras I guess. The principle is simple: throwing colours (in powder or mixed with water) at each other. But obviously, one has to be cleaned afterwards which means that very quickly it becomes a colour fight/water fight with water guns and buckets as favourite weapons. Result is you run around soaked and coloured during three hours, trying to ambush others and to protect yourself (without really trying, it's true). All of that took place on a terrace, on a thankfully sunny Indian Sunday. And here's the result. And also a green belly for a few days, pink ears and fingernails of an interesting variety of colours.

Brassens et autres délices en français

Il a fallut que je vienne sous ces latitudes pour que je découvre certains groupes et chanteurs qui font partie intégrante de la culture francophone, mais dont je ne connaissais souvent que trois phrases et demi, malgré les cris d'indignation de Laure qui a essayé de me convertir à Joe Dassin depuis que je la connais. Elle peut encore essayer, mais Joe Dassin ne fera jamais partie de mon panthéon, haha. Par contre, je me délecte de la Rue Ketanou, des Ogres de Barback et surtout, de Brassens, et de ses jeux avec la langue française, je souris quand il se prend pour sage entre les jeunes et les vieux cons, je me bidonne quand il bande en pensant à Fernande, je m'attendris quand il veut protéger sa voisine de l'orage avec ses bras câlins, et je cherche les sens cachés quand il chante les trompettes de la renommée. Puis aussi, dans l'enthousiasme, j'essaie d'expliquer les paroles à Deepika et là, sans surprise, ça tombe à plat. Alors, tu vois, il dit qu'il bande quand il pense à Fernande, mais pas quand il pense à Lulu, et donc, c'est poilant. Puis, imagine, c'était interdit à la radio quand la chanson est parue et donc, c'est d'autant plus fort ! Tout ça, en anglais, avec moultes explications qui tournent en rond. J'ai laissé tombé. Et je garde le plaisir entièrement pour moi, en me réjouissant des nombreuses chansons et chanteurs qui restent à découvrir. Vous avez des idées?

Bonjour commissaire !

Et voila, m'y revoici, de retour au Commissioner's office. Apres trois petits mois de sursis, je suis de retour dans ce grand batiment ou chaque etape passee est une victoire. Mon permis de residence expire dimanche, et en remplissant les papiers, je me suis rendu compte que j'etais censee venir au moins 2 mois avant la date d'expiration. Oups. A chaque comptoir sa poussee d'adrenaline. Le premier ou je me rends compte que j'ai oublie de faire signer a ma boss un papier. Le premier desespoir passe, la hors-la-loi en moi me pousse a essayer d'imiter sa signature. Je m'entraine, suis sur le point de le faire, puis rapido, j'appelle une de mes collegues pour demander son avis. Non, le risque est trop eleve. Re-desespoir. J'appelle ma boss – oui, elle est au bureau mais non, pas la peine de revenir pour ca, copie ma signature, va dejeuner et retourne l'air de rien. C'est fait. Je suis experte en contre-facon, une ligne de plus sur mon CV. Les poussees d'adrenaline se succedent au rythme des comptoirs. Cinq etapes au moins. La premiere est reussie, une legere observation de la signature. Ca passe, c'est fait. Premier etage, premiere etape: le scrutiny desk. Chaque page est observee et re-observee, questions sur les dates, le salaire et tout ca. J'ai le coeur qui bat. Et toujours ce constat: vous ne devriez pas avoir un business visa. Explications (et maudite soit l'ambassade indienne a Bruxelles). Le couperet tombe: normalement, pas d'extension du permis de residence pour les business visa, on verra si ca passe. Comptoir suivant avec l'email de mon correspondant en Belgique: attendez dix minutes, mon boss veut verifier votre dossier. Et j'attends, et devant moi, un couple de Japonais attend aussi. Est-ce que leur famille, leurs amis, leurs proches sont en vie? Alors que je vis dans un milieu presqu'uniquement Indien, c'est en etant au FRRO que je rencontre les expats de Bangalore – des Iraniens, des Yemenites, des Tanzaniens, des Indiens Americains, des Japonais, une Francaise, c'est ma recolte d'aujourd'hui.

Je reprends le coeur leger – c'est bon, ma demande est acceptee, ils ont fait ma photo, revenez dans une heure. Et j'ai fete ca avec un jus de mosambi, miam. Un sentiment de victoire, comme toujours. Et aussi, derriere cette administration horriblement bureaucratique et stricte, des personnes qui sont souvent (ou parfois) de meilleure volonte que ce que j'aurais imagine. Et oui, on perd une journee, mais (jusqu'a present en tout cas), la bureaucratie a rempli sa part du contrat – je croise les doigts.