Post Script

An Indian poet, Abdullah Khan Ghalib, once wrote, "I asked my soul, what is Delhi? It replied, the world is the body, Delhi is its soul." After my first day in Delhi, I thought, If that's true, what a tortured soul Delhi is.

I have been home a week and I confess, I am not quite back yet despite the busyness that I immediately plunged into in Toronto.

Part of the unsettled feeling is my love-hate relationship with Delhi, and indeed with India. There is so much to dislike in the parts of India I visited, but so much more that is intriguing, that makes me want to explore the country more. Jill has said several times, On this trip, you've seen the underbelly of India - these are some of the poorest people in the world. Maybe so. But when I think underbelly, I think danger, seediness, and disrespect.

Granted, maybe that's what the local poor experience, not visitors who can leave and return to the West any time. I certainly picked up hints of that when I did not stay with the foreigners as a group. But my sense of India echoes what Sandra said: India is not dangerous, it's just kind of wacky.

I don't want to leave India on a low note. I have not left on a low note, but I have not seen enough of India. I've caught glimpses of its beauty in Kashmir and in blogs that fellow marchers who are still in India are writing. For example, in Madeleine's blog.

In books, when I come across an author referring to a city as a woman and attributes human characteristics to her, I've never really understood what that meant. But now I know. I have been treating Delhi like a person. I think it's a she. She sits there, like an impassive mother, not caring whether I am well or not, because she knows I am capable of looking after myself. And what's the worst that could happen to me? I get frustrated, I get mad. Meh. She is chaotic, noisy, unpredictable, and expansive. She is a person I need to know better to prevent her from inadvertently doing me harm; she is like an enemy I need to conquer. But in her busy disorder, she is non-discriminating and provides respite to those who seek balm.

It's these little respites that intrigue me, that make me think India may be fermenting, and Delhi is a reflection of that fervour, but I have reason to believe she will emerge as a good place on earth when things get sorted out. It must be human nature to not settle for what is but always to look for the good. I have seen that good in Delhi's frenetic craze.

For example, when I wandered Connaught Place with a map in front of me, a man offered to direct me to where I wanted to go. I told him I didn't have a destination in mind; I was merely trying to get my bearing. He looked at my map, showed me where I was on the map, then said, Your map is an old one. You need an updated one. So he took me to a tourist bureau for a new map. Before leaving me, he advised, India's official tourist information bureaus carry the Indian government's official stamp, but they are also travel agencies. Go in there and ask for an updated map of Delhi. Don't let them sell you a trip anywhere, unless you want to go on a trip. Then he took his leave.

Inside the tourist bureau, the agent gave me a new map and offered me several tours. I told him I didn't want to book anything, that I would like to gather information only, especially on how to get to the Himalayas. He had someone bring me chai and explained several possibilities. Then he gave me his card and bade me a good day. There was no pressure selling.

The next time someone offered me help, I was trying to use the pay phone at the airport. Seeing me hang up several times, a man came up to look at my phone number and explained what the different digits meant. I had been dialing too many digits. He helped me get through to my call and waved good bye.

Later, for another phone call, I needed 1 Rupee coins. I went to a busy coffee stand and asked for change for my 100 Rupee note. The man behind the counter said he didn't have enough coin change for me, but he did have two 1-Rupee coin in his drawer. So he gave them to me and said, It's okay, use these, no problem. Later, I realized me, the "rich" foreigner, effectively bummed money off a vendor.

Each time I took a taxi from the airport, I knew I was being overcharged, but I also saw the drivers were just doing what they could to make a living. So I pay a bit more, but they were as hospitable as can be, pointing out the different sites of the city to me, inquiring about my family, telling me about theirs. They ensured I not only got to the address I gave them, but made sure someone was at that address to receive me, even if they had to inquire at the neighbouring addresses and wait with me till someone I knew came. I sensed they did not want to leave me stranded and vulnerable.

And then there is Shannon and Lisa, who have stayed in Delhi to work for Ekta Parishad. They share an apartment that provides accommodation to those who do work for the organization. They extended their apartment to me as shelter when I went through Delhi. And I received the benefit of their company as well as the company of those who happened to stay at the apartment when I was there.

The thing is, each time I came into Delhi, the city seemed more manageable, more civilized, more hospitable, less crazy, but always filled with potential for the unexpected. I think the rest of India is also like that, if I could come into the country a few times more.

As I write this, ice pellets are falling outside. It's -9C with the wind chill in Toronto. I toss my cigarette butt in the compost bin and throw a handful of snow over it. I am really glad I have a heated house to go inside to. I've just dyed my hair. I wonder what's happening in India. Is Delhi still hot and dusty? Have all the marchers made it home and are they comfortable in their homes with their families? I hope so. The weather forecast says Srinagar is -1C but sunny this week. Has snow arrived? They don't have central heating. Are men walking around with a pot of hot coal under their farans yet? Are all the women staying inside stoking the fire to keep their families warm?

I think India is still waiting for me.

I'll Be Back

It's been six weeks since I left home. My time away is up. I leave Kabul for Delhi (again Delhi!) in one hour. Wait 14 hours for the flight home. Then get on a plane in the middle of the night for Canada.

I will be home Wednesday, November 14, around noon.

But India and Afghanistan, I'm not done with you. I'll be back.

Janadesh In Pictures

Now that the Janadesh march is over, I miss it. Most of the photographs I took were of the march and now seems a good time to post them, since I have nothing, nada, rien, zip thing to do in Kabul. Because of my leaning to community arts, please excuse the abundance of dance pictures.

We joined the march in Dholpur. Under the scorching sun, it was 40C in the shade. Foreigners found shelter in the shade of a bus. But many of the marchers sat in the open field. This team came prepared. They were the only ones with umbrellas. But I think they must belong to a tribe that carries umbrellas as part of their travel gear.


The marchers bathe daily using the water truck. Men and women take turns. They also eliminate in the field. Foreigners turn aghast, but the marchers just turn a discreet blind eye.


My first encounter with colourful women on the march. They were standing a few feet away just staring at me. I gestured I would take a photo of them and they posed for the shot.


The next day, we got to the march before it started. That's when I found out the Buddhist monks lead the march everyday.


After the Buddhist monks come representatives from the lead team of the day. Each day, the march showcases a team that represents a region or tribe of India. These representatives usually wear their local costume, make music and dance their way through the day's march. They also invite others to join in the dancing.


After the showcase team, the marchers go in order from team 1 to 24. This is team 1 waiting to start the day.


Some marchers wait patiently to start.


Many women carry their supplies for the entire march in one bag on their heads.


Locals gather to watch the marchers.


Some marchers take their infants with them on the march.


Rajagopal makes a speech after he is greeted by a group of school children in one of the villages.


Women on the march.


In one of villages, we were greeted by women who carry flower urns on their heads. This is what I mean about being a bad journalist. I asked where these women came from, then could not remember the name of their tribe or region because the names were all foreign to me.


Locals watching the march go by.


Some marchers were always jubilant.


Another group of school children greet the marchers.


Me learning to make chippati with one of the teams.


My chippati teachers.


On a very hot day (were there any other kind of days?), the march stopped so the Buddhist could lead a two-hour meditation to send wisdom to the Indian parliament.


Marchers often played instruments as they danced and chanted.


My favourite - the genderless/transvestite dancers. They were graceful and fluid, inviting me to dance with them whenever I passed. Even after I tripped and stomped on one of their feet, they invited me again the next day. Maybe they didn't recognize me from the day before because I had changed my clothes.


A tribe with bow and arrow.


One afternoon, Carole and I were recruited to lead the march part of the way.


A brillian sunset.


Marchers getting read to cook.


Another spectacular sunset.


My other favourite - men with bells on their ankles.


One day, the march stopped to wait for the minister to come make an announcement. The minister never showed. But the marchers put on a wonderful show.








Men from Rajasthan with their colourful turbans.




Back on the march with another showcase team.






They marched wearing shoes, or not.


Marchers getting ready to sleep on the side of the road.


Watching the march from my balcony in Delhi.








Final day of the march. The march was locked in this field and not allowed to proceed.


So my other favourite dancers danced the time away. These two are the men with bells on their feet. This one is Francoise' favourite.


This one is my favourite.


Representatives from the lead team waiting to start.


But the police wouldn't let the march through.


Do they look mean?




In the end, the marchers did not proceed. By the end of the day, the Prime Minister had signed the proposal for land reform that had been in front of parliament for three years. Ekta Parishad was very happy for this step towards land reform.

I went back to our hostel and joined some people who found an arts performance at one of the arts schools near by. My eyes and/or balance have gotten very bad in the last month. Not even an idiot-proof digital camera was safe in my maneuvering.