October 22, 2011
On my last day in Bangalore, I made an effort to see more of
the city. I tried to go to a couple of art galleries, since Bangalore has a
vibrantly young contemporary scene. I mostly took buses, but was occasionally
forced to take auto rickshaws to get around.
Auto rickshaw traffic
Look how calm it is!
I wasn’t able to find the first
gallery, but I did find the second one, located in a building of an arts
school. Unfortunately the museum part of it had a steep price tag for
foreigners, but the part I had really come for, a photo gallery, was open and
free. They had rotating exhibits, and I was disappointed to find that the
current display was from a couple of Indian photographers that did wildlife
photography. I don’t want to take anything away from the photographers.
Wildlife photography is difficult and requires more patience than I could
imagine. And it wasn’t bad photography either. Still, though, I am just not
that interested in looking at a gallery of wildlife photography. It doesn’t
speak to me. They were actually having an opening reception and there were lots
of people there. I eventually spotted a couple of guys that must have been the
photographers. They were schmoozing with the guests and talking about their
work. I avoided eye contact with them and snuck out after seeing the whole
show. As much as I was disappointed in the subject matter, it was nice to go to
something like a photo exhibition. So much about India is so overwhelming that
it is easy to forget that there is a strong contemporary arts scene once you
make the effort to find it.
Next, I wanted to get back to the Krishnarajendra market
area near the Jama Masjid (central mosque). I was planning to just go directly
into the market that I had missed last time I had been in the area.
Jama Masjid
As I ambled
from the busy boulevards into the adjacent neighborhoods, though, I found
myself in less of a hurry to get to the market. This was a seriously Muslim
neighborhood and had an atmosphere that I hadn’t quite seen in the rest of
Bangalore. First of all, the streets were narrow and trucks couldn’t even go
through them. It must have been one of the oldest parts of the city judging on
the way it was laid out. It was less of a grid and more of a warren of tiny
streets, dark alleys and dead ends. There was an abundance of street commerce
that caused crowding more intense than most any I had seen back in Kolkata. In
relatively modern Bangalore, this really felt like a neighborhood that time
forgot. The buildings, which were all smashed together, were old and crumbling,
donkey and horse carts plied the streets (something I had almost never seen in
Kolkata), the dress was exquisitely traditional. When I first stepped into the
neighborhood, the crowd of people was just a sea of black and white; the men in
their white robes and skull caps, the women in their black hijabs and niqabs. I
waded into the slow-moving crowd and made my way through the streets, turns
down increasingly smaller and smaller pathways. I wasn’t looking for much; I
just wanted to soak in the unique atmosphere. Eventually, though, I had to get
back on my way and actually find the market I had come looking for.
A vendor serving me up a nice cool glass of something milky and sweet.
Shoe Vendor
Gorgeously gooey sweets
This scene turned into an angry stale mate between the truck driver and the man with the heavy load on his head. There was not enough room for either of them to proceed, and they got into an aggressive argument over who would yield.
After school bros.
Pedestrian Congestion
It was housed in a multi-level structure that seemed
intimidating from the outside. People called out to from their make shift
stands as I approached. Some wanted to sell me onions or peppers, others wanted
me to take their picture. I abided with the picture taking, but had no need for
onions or peppers. Although dark and dingy within, certain sections of the
market were wildly colorful. Others were sleepy and depressing. It felt like
certain times of day brought crowds to different sections of the market. The
blacksmiths and tool vendors were bored or sleeping, while the flower and
vegetable markets were thriving. I was stretching my time as thin as possible.
I still needed to check out of my room and catch my night train back to
Kolkata.
The flower market.
Cows eating garbage, auto rickshaws and traffic. THIS is India.
It was after dark when I finally reached the train station.
For whatever reason, the station seemed far busier and crowded than I had
remembered. As I walked through the crowds toward my train, one of my shoes
came untied from the back of my backpack. When I finally realized, it was too
late. I would have that somebody had stolen it off my bag, but why would they
only take one? Remind you of the shoe shine boy in “The Darjeeling Limited”
that steals one of Owen Wilson’s loafers? Still I am almost certain this was a
result of my own carelessness. It wasn’t too hard of a pill to swallow that I
would only have flip-flops because I sure wasn’t about to buy any shoes.
I had somewhat expected the train to be extra crowded, but
it was far worse than I had imagined. This train was destined for Kolkata a day
before Diwali, one of India’s biggest holidays, which also falls on Kali Puja,
one of Kolkata’s biggest holidays. I had a middle berth, which meant that
during the day I would be sitting on the bench seat, rather than laying down up
top like I had done on the way there. Bedtime came quickly, though, and I was
glad to curl up in my own bed. I could already see that I was one of the lucky
ones. Several people were sharing the tiny, hard beds and even a couple people
had laid out newspapers on the floor to sleep on.
In the morning, I tried to savor my time laying down, but
knew that I would be told to fold my bed down soon. Sure enough, soon after the
7 AM sunrise, I was woken up by someone motioning for me to get down. I folded
up the bed and joined my fellow travelers on the bench seat. There were only
supposed to be three people on the two benches that faced each other. We
squeezed five onto each, plus there were a couple of people on each of the top
berths above us. At every stop a few people would get off, but more people
would get on. At one point I counted about 18 people in our little section. It
is meant for eight people. Most of the people probably didn’t have a ticket and
I am guessing they just bribed the controllers to let them stay in the nooks
and crannies of the train. The people that were in my section were lucky,
though. There were plenty more people shoved into the spaces around the open
train doors and the filthy bathrooms. One time when I got up to go to the
bathroom, there was somebody sleeping right in front of it, with their head
resting on the damp, cock-roach laden floor next to the door. You can imagine
how disgusting a train car and its bathrooms get on a 36-hour ride at double or
even triple capacity. During stops, I would usually by snacks through the
window, since I didn’t want to risk losing my seat and getting into an argument
with someone that didn’t care that I had actually paid for a ticket. Most
people were traveling in pairs, groups or families, and could send someone out
to get meals for everyone. Food scraps and garbage that didn’t make it out the
window would litter the floor. Sometimes a disabled person would climb on at a
station and sweep the aisles in exchange for tips. This was especially lucky
for the growing number of people that would be sleeping on the floor that
night. I enjoy the 2nd class sleeper and don’t mind its griminess or
the lack of air conditioning. However, I have my limits and I have to say that
I was incredibly grateful to have a seat or a bed for the entire trip.
After the second night, people woke up and pulled out clean
clothes, razors, soaps and all sorts of toiletries. I could see that everyone
was making their way towards the sinks and bathrooms, trying to freshen up
before arriving in the city. A 36-hour train ride is not good for anyone’s
hygiene, and it was especially important for all these people going to visit
family for the holidays to present themselves well. By the time we arrived in
the urine-fragranced platform at Sealdah Station in Kolkata, everyone was
looking spiffy and smelling nice. I, on the other hand, stumbled out of the
train like a stinking zombie. I’m not really proud of that, and the other
people on the train probably thought less of me for it, but I was not out to
impress anyone. I was just looking forward to getting back to my little home on
Sudder Street.
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