Bombay blues

I'm in a dingy Mumbai hotel room recovering from food poisoning. I just asked the bellhop (or whatever he's called) to come and kill the spider that was in the corner. I've also asked if they have a double room available because I heard they're "deluxe." I could stand a bit of deluxe right now. Actually there's nothing much wrong with the room, besides the smell of mothballs (popular in India), some blistered paint, a few stains on the otherwise clean sheets and the aforementioned spider. But I'm feeling a little frayed and not quite as stalwart as usual.

My two Sangam House friends, Birgitta and Eugene, (from Sweden and Korea respectively) and I traveled together the other day from Bangalore to Hampi by overnight train. On the way there we had 2AC class which means you each have a berth with another person sharing (ie there are 4 berths). The train left at 10 p.m. and as soon as it pulled out of the station, people made up their berths and went to bed. So we did, too. It was quite comfortable; they supply the bedding.

We took an autorickshaw to Hampi, then crossed the small river by ferry (ie. loaded to the max steel bottomed skiff) and stayed at a place called Shanthi guesthouse. Very nice. Mosquito nets in the cabanas. I love a mosquito net.

Lotus Mahal

Hampi is an incredible place. There are ruins from the the 14th-16th centuries when this was the centre of the Vijayanagara empire. At one time, there were bazaars with visiting merchants from China, Persia and elsewhere. The two most compelling things for me were the Lotus Mahal, apparently the queen's palace, so beautiful and peaceful with a warm breeze sweeping through it and the Hazara-rama which is a temple carved with hundreds of images from the Indian epic, the Ramayana. There's something about the way this narrative has captured the imagination over the ages that's inspiring, to say the least.

Hanuman the Monkey king

But back to my sad tale. After two days in Hampi, I woke up on the third day, the day we would be traveling back to Bangalore, with a bad case of food poisoning. I admit I had relaxed my guard just a bit and had a couple of things I wouldn't have normally because I thought I was home-free. At any rate, the difficult thing was that we were waitlisted for a First class AC train but had bought back-up sleeper class just in case. Sure enough, the train was full and it was sleeper class for us. Not easy when you're sick. Luckily we shared with a really nice sympathetic family. Still, it's not an experience I'd want to repeat. I can't talk about it just yet, as I'm still in recovery mode. Tomorrow will be better.

Home soon.





Intuition

I remember traveling when I was younger, that I had to learn again and again to trust my intuition. I'd step into something I wasn't sure about and then realize that I'd ignored what I'd already sensed in advance. Often too late, though not distastrously so, luckily. This may be an advantage of being an older traveler, or at least in my case it is. I've learned to trust my instincts and intuitions, gut feelings and desires. I'm both more flexible now and more certain. How to explain that paradox? Well, the place for paradoxes is India -- a string of fresh marigolds hanging in a tiny, grimy mechanics shop, dazzlingly clean white kurtas and turbans in a backdrop of cows grazing on garbage and men pissing on the roadside. Purity and filth, dignity and indignity.

The novel I'm currenty writing and researching begins in India and comes from a story I once I heard (or read?) that caught my imagination. It's a small anecdote really, just an opening into an idea, but it's stayed with me through the years. That story has come together in my imagination with a story set in rural Manitoba. Why? I don't know yet. But again I have learned to trust my intuition in writing. If nothing else, it makes the process a lot more interesting for me. I put things together because I sense they belong together. I don't work from an outline, although I do have a pretty good sense of where the story's going. I feel like an outline would take the fun out of it for me. New characters sometimes appear who take the story in a direction I hadn't expected. Main characters refuse to follow the plot I've envisioned for them. But once I've written a first draft, then I do go back and make an outline of what I've done and look for holes, etc.

I also have a policy of not talking much about the novel, or letting anyone read it, before it's written. It's almost a superstition, like a playoff beard. Once, when I was a kid, I snuck a look at my Christmas presents before Christmas morning. I never did it again. I think you can spend your ideas by talking about them too much. Afterwards, when it's written and I'm revising or feel "done", then sure. But not before. The one exception is the talking I do with David, my husband. He listens but doesn't pry. Often he's half asleep and just grunts a bit which keeps me talking. He may seem bored (probably not a pose). And sometimes he suggests things that I initially dismiss but that later return to me and I end up using.

I'm back at Sangam House today, just for one night, then taking the night train to Hampi with two writers I've met here. Then to Bombay. Home soon.

Enterprising India

The day before yesterday we travelled to Fatehpur Sikhri. Akbar built it intending it to become the new capital, but a shortage of water led him to pack up and move the palace, along with all the shops and services that supplied it. Fatehpur Sikhri is interesting, but it's swarming with both tourists and Indians wanting to make some money from tourists. Lots of little impish kids who know a few words in about six languages and have various little items to sell: postcards are common, but also dolls, bracelets, anklets, books about the site, pens, etc, etc. A sense of humour is extremely helpful. Our Indian tour leader taught me the phrase "na heeng cha-ir" which means something like "I don't want anything." He said to say it forcefully. I remember in Morocco the word "walloo" (nothing) was like magic, so I tried it out, (the Hindi phrase, that is, not the Arabic) except I'd written it on my hand and didn't have my reading glasses so I said "nee haang" and then upped the insistent tone, repeating "Nee haang, nee haang" thinking I'm very clever but getting only blank stares. They've never heard this language before. One boy, a young smiling smart-ass teenager (I know this terrain!) said, "Nee haang? What's that? Chinese?"

So I stopped and checked then corrected myself and said "Na heeng" and some kids ran away in shock, except the teenaged boy who said, "Good Hindi." So he hung around me for the next little while and enjoyed the show as I used my one Hindi phrase. He did correct my pronunciation as well. Then I bought four packets of postcards from him and we both were happy with the deal and he left me saying to his friend, "Nice lady." Charmer.

At Fatehpur Sikhri there's a pool; I assume it was a kind of cistern. The stagnant water in it was green sheened and slimy looking. Three young men in just their skivvies stood by it and when they saw us coming they hailed us and one ran to the edge of the cistern, prepared to dive in. I was horrified and felt sure he'd crack his skull on the stone ledge around it. But in he dived in and then he quickly climbed out to the cheers of some of my travel companions and of course he ran right over to collect for the show. I admired his enterprising spirit. He had nothing to sell but his young bravado and it worked.

But not to give the wrong idea. It's really only in these tourist hot spots that we've been hassled like that. This week I'm travelling with a G adventures tour and there are 15 of us, and most of them are young women of around 25, along with an Anglo-Indian man (40ish) an American man of 53, and two other young men, UK and Germany, also around 25. We have a great group, really respectful nice travellers. I'm realizing the advantage of being older. I can walk out on the street alone and no one bothers me at all, except for the occasional "hello" from someone. But it's not the young women who get bothered most; it's the big American male. Holy!

We're in Jaipur now. Pretty crazy busy. I'll need my earplugs to sleep tonight. To the Amber Fort tomorrow.

Horn concerto

I'm in my hotel lobby (where I get wireless access) listening to a horn concerto, ie. horns of every description: car, motorcycle, bus, truck, bicycle, rickshaw? Some do these riffs, up a few quick notes, down again, or a repetitive tattoo, half note blasts, quarter note toots.  Do rickshaws have horns? I'm not sure, although I've found something peaceful about riding in them, autorickshaws, that is. I've seen bicycle rickshaws, too, but none pulled by human power, thank goodness. The rickshaw drivers are famous for taking you to markets you don't want to go to, but I've found if you're firm, they're great. I just came back from coffee (where I parted with my travel mates; they went to a market). I caught a rickshaw back with an old guy. We got stuck in traffic because of some kind of royalty (from Singapore? or was it Oprah who is in India for the Jaipur literary festival?) coming through in a cavalcade: loudspeakers clearing the road, horns blasting. Dogs, cows, goats, pedestrians and all of us had to move over and sit for a while. There in the back of the rickshaw, I could watch it all unfold.

Volunteer at Sikh temple

In spite of the noise, the chaos, I've felt peaceful here. I think I mentioned the feeling of surrender when I was younger and travelling in a wildly different place from what I knew. But yesterday as I actually listened on my ipod to a Mozart clarinet concerto, my dad's favourite piece of music, and the crazy traffic horns provided an accompaniment that made me laugh out loud (because they kind of matched), I tried to identify this peaceful feeling, different from that feeling of surrender. And I realized it's gratitude.

Daytime in Delhi

It's 2:17 p.m. in Delhi, which means it's about 1 a.m. in Canada and about 8 a.m. in London (I think!). The usual crazy traffic coming in from the airport, horns constant, no one in their lane, pedestrians rushing out to tap on windows for money or to sell something, military everywhere, ie. young men in uniforms every hundred feet or so on the middle boulevard, holding rifles, road work that looks like it will never end at the pace workers are tapping with pick-axes at giant chunks of concrete.

I'm sad to say that I got hoodwinked immediately, as soon as I stepped out of the airport to catch my cab. No real harm done, except it annoyed me. I'd been told to get a pre-paid taxi at the Delhi Traffic Police stands. That way you can avoid getting taken to someone's uncle's hotel, etc. No one warned me to watch out for the police. He told me it would be 320 rupees, so I gave him a 500 rupee note. Then he asked me how much luggage and how many traveling. I looked away for a moment and when I looked back he said,"That's 320 rupees" as if I hadn't understood the first time, then he handed me back a 100 rupee note. I said, "Oh what did I give you?" which of course was what he intended, that I would think I had made a mistake. I didn't clue in until I'd got in the taxi (with a very nice and honest driver). Argh! It kind of put me off my first experience of Delhi. You shouldn't annoy an Irish woman. She gets kind of testy. (but to put it in perspective, it was about an $8 rip-off)

And I hate to be the kind of tourist who is always thinking someone's trying to rip her off. Indian people are also very kind and have a gracious hospitality like nowhere I've ever been. Before this, I hadn't experienced the rip-off paranoia at all.  But it may be because I've been with locals, and also everyone says Bangalore is much more easygoing. So, I clearly need to pay more attention. The north is much more touristy than the south, so the fine art of the scam has obviously been perfected.

On the brighter side, my colleague, Divya, is from Delhi. She kindly lent me her India phone (which has come in handy a few times) and while I was in the taxi, the phone rang (to my surprise) and it was Divya's Delhi relative welcoming me and asking if everything was okay. He'll meet me tomorrow  before I go on my tour. Very nice to have a local contact.

I almost forgot to mention the Waterstones 11 event on Thursday night. That was the reason I interrupted the India trip to go to London. Shelter has been chosen as one of the best UK debut novels of 2012 by the Waterstones bookstore chain. We were under strict "embargo" until after the gala on Thursday night. During the day we went to a photo shoot of the eleven authors, then later to a reception at their flagship London store (4 levels, and a restaurant on the 5th) where the list was announced and wine and champagne flowed. This morning I picked up the Guardian in the airport. Leonard Cohen was on the front page and there was an affectionate three-page story about him and his new album. And on another page was the story about the list of Waterstones 11. I was honoured to have my name in the same newspaper as Leonard!

P.S The first person I met in this hotel is a woman from Kelowna who in a former Okanagan College instructor. Funny. She now lives in Saudi Arabia.

P.P.S I think that wireless will be harder to come by from now on, so the postings may be sparse for a bit.

A few days in London



Church of St. Martins-in-the-Fields

I've come to London to meet my UK publisher at Virago Press, Lennie Goodings. I'm so pleased to be published in the company of so many fine women writers, including Margaret Atwood. I have many Virago books on my shelves at home. Here's a little about the press: http://www.virago.co.uk/about_virago.asp?TAG=&CID=&PGE=&LANG=EN

If you look up "virago" in the dictionary, here's what it says:

vi·ra·go

 /vɪˈrɑgoʊ, -ˈreɪ-/ Show Spelled

noun, plural -goes, -gos.

1. a loud-voiced, ill-tempered, scolding woman; shrew.

2. Archaic . a woman of strength or spirit.

 

Strange and sad how the Archaic meaning changed over the centuries to become the modern one. But I'll gladly claim either definition.

 

Lennie Goodings is actually a Canadian who came to Britain in about 1978. She's been with Virago ever since. She grew up in southern Ontario and lived in St. Catharines, probably within about a mile of where I lived until I was ten. She went to the high school across from Dennis Morris (my sister's Catholic high school). She comes from a family of 5 (we have 6) and her brother is known as Mr. Safety, Patrick's nickname in Shelter. That last bit may be the oddest coincidence.

 

I have a fairly light schedule here, so today is a sightseeing day. I'm going to walk to Kensington Palace, which is not far from my hotel (the very gracious taxi driver told me about it last night; it's where Princess Diana lived), then to the British Museum. Everything here resonates with associations. Yesterday I went to the church of St. Martins-in-the-Fields, which is where the Academy of St. Martins-in-the-Fields originated. They produce some of my favourite classical music with Neville Marriner conducting, including the sublime Mozart Piano Concerto #17 with Alfred Brendel playing piano. After the switch to CDs from vinyl, I searched for years to find this recording again, and finally did. The others just can't match it.

 

I also went to the National Gallery and may go back today if I have time. So much to see, you could spend days. I loved this painting, Combing the Hair by Degas. (this is taken from a postcard!)

 

Tomorrow there are Shelter activities. More later.

 

 

Last day at Sangam & Bangalore part 2

I'm sitting in the last of the sun on my last retreat day here at Sangam House/Nrityagram. I'll miss the bird sounds, the one that sounds like a tap dripping, the mournful doves, the musical twittering of the parrot-like birds (I think), some kind of swallows, and even the crows who wake us up at between 6 and 8 a.m. every morning by pecking on the high windows. And I'll miss the food, the sound of drums and singing most of the day, and most of all the gracious people.

I'm heading to London early in the morning for some celebrations for the UK release of Shelter. I'll be there 4 days and then back to Delhi to continue my India travels. I actually get to return to Sangam House for one day to meet up with two friends I met here and then we travel together to Hampi. I've been very lucky to have this gentle introduction to India.

But to finish the Banglore story. After our bookstore tours, our taxi took us to Fabindia. If I could, I would insert here a dramatic ascending note, raga-style. Everyone told me I had to go to Fabindia. It's a store that's been in India for over 50 years, carrying textiles and furniture made in India in beautiful traditional patterns and dyes. I could have spent hours.

In a post-consumer haze, we got back in the taxi and got the full-on Bangalore traffic experience.  We headed to the Toto awards for young (under 30) writers and visual artists. We got there a little late, (blaming the traffic, not the amount of time we spent shopping) but still in time to hear a few writers reading in English and Kannada. Since I've read a shortened version of the Mahabharata, I recognized the references one writer was making about narrative. I also heard references to Koshy's where we were going for dinner later. It's kind of an institution in Bangalore, a place with Indian, Chinese and Western food. In fact, when we got there and the owner heard there was a woman from Korea in our party, he went to the kitchen and brought out kimchi (I think that's right), a kind of hot pickle made with cabbage. She pronounced it (sotto voce) "fake kimchi" but politely told him it was "unique."

After dinner at Koshy's (our table ordered everything from pork chops to egg foo yung to scrambled eggs to kofta and palak paneer--that was my end of the table. We also had Indian wine, Seagrams Nine Hills, not bad), it was late and time to head back to Sangam House. At one point in the road there was a checkpoint, mainly for trucks who take the back routes to avoid the tolls (sound familliar, Neil?) but our taxi was stopped. The guard seemed puzzled by this taxi heading into the countryside with an Indian driver, a  white foreigner in the front seat, and one in the back, along with an Indian woman and an Asian woman. He asked the driver the same set of questions twice, apparently to make sure he was telling the truth, then he asked my name and I said, "Francie." (as if, surely you've heard of me?) He said "Francie," nodded, and let us drive on. We all laughed about that afterward. "Francie Madam" Nabina kept saying.