So I thought I’d share with you a couple of memories from my trip to India…
In New Delhi, Kriti and I went on a trip to see India Gate; an archway which is a memoriam for a fair few wars (google it, as I’m far too lazy to list them all). But the most amazing thing about this place was the people. There were street kids washing in the lake, tourists from all over the world, police guards, beggers… And this girl really stood out. She was begging with what looked like her mother right beside the gate. She had the confidence and practised cutey-ness of an actress. And at what? Five years old? She took my breath away. And it’s safe to say I’m sure her shining eyes will make you look twice.
Here we both are outside Ghandi’s place of rest. See, from the offset it looks like Kriti and I are pretty chilled and cool in this pic, but TRUST ME it was like being in a furnace.
Old Delhi here and in a bit of it called Parawthe Gulley – where they make the world’s best parawthe. Cooked in pure Gee, it’s pretty damn bad for you, but goodgod it tastes amazing. This place was just writhing with insanity; the wires, the stores, the people all looked like they were out of a movie and not in one of the famous areas of Delhi. However, although it may look a bit rough-and-ready, it was quite something to walk through.
This is the restaurant in which we had a parawthe. The guys make them in those massive pans you see at the bottom and the man in this picture is making up some more, as well as some chutneys.
Man oh man was this stuff a little teeny bit bizarre, but cool nonetheless. This guy here is selling Pan. If you go to India, in most lift corners/street corners/anywhere outside you will see splashes of red – and that is because of men and women spitting the Pan out after eating it. You’ll see it everywhere; most people’s teeth are stained with the colouring. So what exactly is it? Well, Pan is a very sweet and perfumed (usually with rose water) sugary treat which is then wrapped up in a palm leaf. Not to my taste but definitely worth a try.
Such an awesome snapshot. Kriti and I were staying at her uncle’s house who owned the only petrol station in the tiny village. Wherever you drive in India you see people bustling for room in trucks and cars with heads, arms and even whole bodies resting on the outsides of speeding vehicles. This tractor was taking some village people out and was so amazingly colourful and such an interesting site that I couldn’t help taking a shot of it.
What an experience this was! Kriti and I got the opportunity to teach students at a local school. They were so responsive and loved our talk about English life, finding it so funny and gross that we ate a big joint of beef for our Sunday Roast and that our movies didn’t have singing and dancing in them.
This is Kriti’s auntie. Here, we were at an arranged marriage Engagement Ceremony. We were all dressed in our finery and met up with the couple; the prospective wife having to sit at the front of the room and be questioned by all of her future husband’s family. Then, both families arrange talks to see whether the union would work. And after a few hours, the engagement was announced!
|Frustratingly, I cannot work out how to change this picture around! But this is a woman that I met on a bike ride around the villages.|
Beautiful scene of village women going to bathe. The lake was already teaming with buffalo and men washing together, and the women were about to go in and bathe themselves. Awesome colours.
Our final stop off and I spotted these two ladies staring at me on the bike. I couldn’t help but stare back!
Being rudely awoken at 7pm after my Indian siesta, Kriti shook me and said ‘Hannah, Hannah, get out of your PJs and we’re going to a family meal. Apparently they’ve made quite a fuss out of us’.
So, with a muggy head, I put a shirt on, not even bothering to brush my hair; Kriti slicked back her hair and donned her glasses over a makeup-less face and we headed off to this ‘family meal’.
But, here comes the embarrassment. Instead of a family house, we were taken to the only hotel in the village where at the front door was a sign that said ‘Welcome to the Singhania family’.
We walked in tentatively and could hear the familiar sound of Kriti’s dad, Govind, chatting away. But not to any old person, to a room of over 200 people. We were pushed into the room by an exictable member of the hotel staff who couldn’t stop looking at the ‘white girl’ and asked to sit at the top table. Massive gulp.
Govind was chatting away in Hindi but Kriti was translating. The event was a welcome to the Singhania’s and the ‘Foreign visitor’ who had come all this way to see Akatara. Govind was talking about his life in England; he was the first person from the village to move out of Akaltara, let alone go all the way to the golden streets of England…
Then a young boy came onto the stage and chatted, he was going to America as he had won a scholarship at an Ivy league University. They were talking and congratulating him when the boy said something and Govind stared and me; everyone went silent. The lad, who was a ridiculous super-genius, wanted to shake hands with ME, little blonde odd me, because he was ‘blessed’ to have a foreignor in his village. A boy who had won a scholarship to one of the most presitigious universities in the world wanted to shake hands with me because I was, well, blonde and foreign. That was the most awkward handshake of my life. He said in English: ‘Thank you so much for coming, you have made us all very happy’. Um, erh…wow.
Now that I was in the limelight, Govind took this opportunity to seemingly make me want to murder him. Again he chatted away in Hindi and again the room went silent. But this time the microphone was shoved in my face. Kriti quickly said ‘They want you to make a speech and then sing, go on they’re waiting’. I could see her face desperately wanting to crease into a massive smile. I’ve only ever sung infront of her in the car and even then she abruptly turns the music up so she can’t hear me.
So, through an urge to run for the hills and a minor murderous rage toward Kriti and her joy at my embarrassment, I chatted away (whilst Govind translated) about how happy I was to be there, turning a fantastic shade of BRIGHT, INSANELY BRIGHT RED BEETROOT at the same time.
And then as the crowd grew ansy, I was forced by no fault of my own to demonstrate how utterly untalented this so called ‘foreign movie star Hannah from England’ was.
Luckily, well, I say luckily, Kriti’s cousin Tuktuk had taught me an Indian dance to a song which goes ‘hush hush baby, I’m too sexy for you’ the night before. Yes, after I did it she pronounced me ‘rubbish’ in her Indian accent and then shoved and pushed my legs and arms until I did it ‘ok – ish’ and yes, she is a five year old girl and yes, the song was the epitome of innappropriateness. But, on that fateful night, I found myself dancing mock-sexily to a group of 200 admiring Indians, all waiting to see what the white girl could do.
And d’yknow what? They clapped. And then the kids all lined up to shake my hand.
Oh, and that picture was one of the many I had with some of the kids that turned up on that fateful night. Myself and Kriti were papped all night, as well as asked for our autographs, facebook accounts and telephone numbers.
A homeless chap who seems to be posing here after begging for money.