Morgalogue

I am now (finally) the extremely proud owner of a Canon G7 camera. By far the most high-tech thing I have ever owned. Getting hold of the item was an exercise in ‘modern India’ that took me on a journey of several hundred kilometres, from coast to coast and just about reduced me to tears on several occasions.

Bangalore despite having a clean, leafy, almost American city centre (with a toxic smog to rival LA) was a dead end as far as Canon G7’s went, though by this time I had become obsessed. After 3 fruitless days, a proposition on Ebay India took me to Chennai (formerly Madras). Chennai is a proper fast, hot, dusty, dirty, noisy, grinding Indian city. I spent 3 more days with cockroaches and dirty sheets trying to see the upside of my situation as hustling, moustachioed camera dealers citywide told me “yes, yes … no problem, DEFINATELY have stock tomorrow. I not lying. You come back 11 o’ clock OK? Make it 2pm … 2pm! OK boss ?”.

The upside I suppose is that I spent more time in ‘New India’ than I could probably have bared otherwise, I fucking hate shopping. But, I’m beginning to get a feel for this dynamic, confident, capitalist modern India and its contradictions. In the words of Harry Enfield’s original Essex wideboy character (back when he was funny) - “Money is nothing to be ashamed of !”. Adverts here for everything from mobile phones to toothpaste are desperate to slip in lifestyle cues about having a secretary or doing business at the office. The world outside is of course very different.

I stayed in the Muslim quarter - just a few streets back from the gridlocked, 6-lane main streets lined with billboards, shopping plazas and hulking old Tamil cinemas - though it was like going back in time. Narrow streets lined with flatroofed, Arab-style buildings with the occasional old colonial backstreet courtyard or palm-leaf shack. The whole area is a blur of activity, life is everywhere - asking you questions, asking for money, whizzing past on a motorbikes, between you and a truck overflowing with banannas or tyres or pots. There are ancient shop fronts of every ‘monger’ you can think of - people welding, making clothes, mattresses, rope, shoes, pots, not to mention restaurants, tea stands, fruit stalls, cornershops, halal butchers. Children, mothers, babies, old men, cripples, cows, chickens, goats - everywhere. I love detail but the street scenes are so rich it gives me a headache just trying to put them into words. Also made me kind of sad to realise how lifeless our city centres now are. Nothing is made there anymore … there are no artisans. Just ’showrooms’ populated by bored kids, like the shopping plazas round the corner.
People also live on these streets. Homelessness in an area that gets very little rain doesn’t require cardboard boxes tucked away under bridges. Familes are just lying on the streets and the roads, some sleeping, some talking to friends, some washing or doing the toilet - as much a part of the street as the workers. I really wasn’t sure of this until late at night, when the shops started shutting up and the same people were still there, getting ready for bed.

I finally lost my rag with the dealers and decided to retreat to a small town further down the cost to await news there. The day I left was the festival of Moharran, the Islamic equivalent of New Year. It ‘celebrates’ the brutal martydom of the Prophets’ grandson and family. It’s the scary one we always see on the news where people dressed in black whip themselves with chains. It had also squeezed itself into a procession along my narrow street. In 30+ heat I had to flight my way through the crowds with my rucksack, past people with gory, lacerated backs oozing blood. More entertaining than shopping mind you.

So for the last few days I have been in Mamallapuram. An ancient Pallava town known for its stonecarving. It’s also got a beach and is a bit of a traveller hangout. It’s again nice to see people making stuff. Everywhere you walk you can hear chisels chipping away at stone or angle grinders cutting rock. There around 5000 sculptors in the area and a government run sculpture school that trains locals only (a nice idea) in producing sculpture along ancient religious teachings. For a sculpture to be worthy of worship it has to follow an exacting code of iconography and proportion called shastras.

I was tempted to get a bit of rock and start bashing away myself - the camera could take a year ! - so I went to the sculpture school for something to do. It was completely devoid of activity. I walked into 3 classrooms and woke up 3 proffessors before finally being given to Mr Sundaram MA, MA, MEd, MA, MPhil, CGT. He doesn’t sleep, he just does more degrees. He’s studying for another. He also lives alone and was secretly looking for someone to expound his world view to. So I’ve been hanging out with the old guy and he’s been taking me to meet the true ‘artistes’ in the town. Beautiful work. Photos are on Flickr.