DEHRADUN - Song and Dance

The end to a relativly quiet week as far as India is concerned. Secluded in Chez Kumar away from the bustle of Dehardun and, this being a city a fraction of the size of Delhi, I've found myself enjoying the sounds of thunder and falling rain rather than those of people and traffic. It makes a welcome break between projects because, as I'm sure you've all gathered by now, doing any sort of business in this country is best accompnied by firstly banging your head repeatedly against a brick wall (the headache tends to subside quicker, that way)

This week, then, has been about exploring some of the finer points of the city. Which, in Ranman's case, means going to an awful lot of tiny food stalls and buying everything in sight. Well, everything Indian in sight. Whenever I ask for a bunch of bananas or a loaf of brown bread my request is first greeted with laughter before we start heading for the grocery store. Must be an Indian thing.


Buying fruit is like an extreme sport in India. Even when you've worked out exactly what it is you're buying, you're never quite sure exactly what you're paying until you leave and see if you've ended up with any change. Frequently, you haven't.

Living with Ranman has taught me the proper procedure for rapport with Indians. And that is, to be willing to talk about any random subject which comes into their heads, be able to eat mountainous levels of food at all hours of the day and to be firm whenever a negative responce is required. I get the impression it takes a lot to insult Indians as they can spout some of the most outrageous comments in the world and simply laugh afterwards. They also have a very romantic view of the white Western world. Which is, of course, we are all filthy rich and just visiting India to 'slum it' for a few weeks. How have a I possibly survived so far in my life without a camera on my mobile phone or an iPod? I don't know, but if Ranman is any judge I'm probably about to drop dead through poverty.

But, then, on matters of personal taste things operate very diffently here. Ranman took me to see my first 'proper' Bollywood movie (I'd sat through the many horrors of the English lanaguage Mistress of Spices a couple of weeks back and safetly repressed most of the horror), and India's current favourite, 36 Chinatown. The usual ludicrous mix of facile whodunnit, terrific overacting from everyone involved (full marks to the detective who managed to deploy a 'smouldering squint' in every single one of his scenes) and fantasy song and dance interludes inserted at regular intervals in the 150 minute running time. For no reason whatsoever. In the car afterwards, Ranman wanted me to explain why no Bollywood film is ever shown at Cannes or nominated for an Oscar. He had a hard time accepting that, what is considered the height of sophistication on one continent fits squarely into the box of 'camp curio' everywhere else on the planet. For a giant country with such well connected borders and a fascination with world affairs, in so many ways India is one of the greatest isolationalists on the planet.


Mussoorie by night. That's those ickle tiny lights off in the distance, in case you were wondering.

Meanwhile, away from the madness of the city (because it is madness, all of it. No matter which size of a city you're in) are the Himilayan foothills and the hill stations such as the renowned Mussoorie, which receive Nepalese and Tibetan refugees during the winter, and tourists fot the summer. We've only taken a short drive into the hills so far but I'm looking forward to spending some more time up there in the (relative) peace and quiet. Ranman seems to find it quite arresting being up there; I get the impression he rather likes looking down on people. I enjoy looking the other way, towards the larger hills and the mountain ranges beyond. When I explain this to him, he laughs and tells me how strange I am.