Ark of Vermin

As the monsoon rains come, so too do the floods. And with every self-respecting flood there should be an ark. And there is - it is the vermin ark that is my home. This is not a criticism of my Auntie's housekeeping - she runs a respectably tight ship. But yet...they come. Two by two by two, by two.

It's not of plague magnitude. Just the slow steady trickle of time tested Chinese water torture. We are graced with a different nocturnal guest a night. I suspect they run rotations.

We have a mouse family, previously living in a box on our bureau now refugeed somewhere behind the furniture (one of which cheekily gnawed a chunk out of my school planner).

The ants - the big black ones and their small red cousins; the latter prefer running in and out of my sandals and getting smooshed between my toes.

The roaches of mammoth size and the flying ones (which Auntie professes are not true roaches, but frankly I don't see what the appreciable difference is except that one sort can fly into my ears and the other kind would have to crawl - roaches being known to get trapped, chittering, in those aural crevices during the night).

The dot-like bugs that scurry over the pages of our books as we read.

The tarantula sized spider (although not a true tarantula) behind our bed (now deceased).

There was the scorpion under the table we eat at (also deceased).

The moths - but I kind of like them.

The lizards - likewise picturesque.

Something that leaves tiny brown poop pellets about the size of the eye of a needle around the bed.

The creature that digs in the wall and faithfully leaves a tidy pile of dirt and wall bits next to its hole every morning.

There is a snail who lives in the damp of the bathroom, as well as a terracotta bowl of worms. The worms have a legitimate presence, though, as they are fed to Uncle's fish every night.

And finally. My own personal nemesis - the mosquitoes. I have been sporting the equivalent of a braille encyclopedia upon the parchment of my tender skin for several months now. A memorable few weeks tallied 26 mosquitoe bites on my left foot alone. I take swigs of benadryl cough syrup like a bad vodka habit. Interestingly, the diphenhydramine element acts as a quick and glorious antihistmene.
Who knew?

But my point. My point is that I am living smack dab in the ketchup dish of an enormous entomological buffet.

...and that I am itchy.


The cute, baby-cradle mosquito net on sale at a local department store.

My roommate and our own cave-like mosquito net.

The mammoth roaches.

***And yes, we have been proactive in our trials. We have a net, roach chalk, roach balls, the plug-in kind of mosquitoe repellent, the burning kind of mosquitoe repellent, deet, bleach, and some sort of chemical that uncle pumps around in the corners of the room. I sleep with my socks up over my pajama bottoms, huddled in a sleep sack up to my ears.

Ah summer vacation.

Monsoon Floods

This year has been rather monsoon light. There's been much speculation on the effects of global warming and a indefinite shrugging of shoulders. But the monsoon, while not in its full glory, still seems to be picking up speed a bit lately.

When the rains come, a lot of the pavement in certain parts of the city goes. After a good night of rain, a series of pictures predictably appear in the newspapers the next day showcasing hapless neighborhoods who get a little touch of Venice overnight. Happily my house is on established high ground...but market shopping and going to work are definitely jeopardized activities.

I've heard tales of monsoon seasons of yore that include children getting sucked down open man holes that they unwittingly walked over and waves lapping over the feet of people inside busses. Busses which continue to trundle (float?) down the streets despite it all.

I rather hope my internship is over before we reach that point.

What to do, what to do.


Sort of an awkward spot for an enforced nap.


A good excuse to miss school.


The human rickshaws are the only ones who can reliably get through the little side streets in these conditions.

More Tagore

Wonder

Once again I wake up. The night withers. The universe shoots out petals. This is the wonder, unending.

So many continents have sunk, so many stars have lost luster, and aeons have elapsed! World-conquerors have lost their identities in the shadowy fringe of wordy chronicles. Nations erected obelisks on blood-smeared mud but only to quench the hunger of the dust. Amid these vast ruins, today my brow wears once again the morning sun’s mark, and that is the wonder unending!

I stand today in the vast hall of the starry heavens. I am one with the Seven Stars and with the mounts of the Himalayas. I am where the dramatic play of the wild fury of the sounding ocean breaks into frenzied waves. On the bark of this giant tree, this lord of the forest, are imprinted the signatures of centuries. It has witnessed the rolling down of many crowns, and under its shade I have the sanction to sit for another day.

And I know that within the womb of this day clatter the wheels of time invisible, inaudible.

Rabindranath Tagore
1932

Snaps

Snap [snap]
Noun
A picture made using a camera, in which an image is focused onto film or other light-sensitive material and then made visible and permanent by chemical treatment.
“Snap”, as in:
Ugh! I look so fat in this snap!
Excuse me, could you please take a snap of me and my friend on this camel?
Oh Mr. Firth! Will you autograph your snap for me, please?


Market Day

Places to go, people to see, bangles to buy...


Calcutta's China Town

I saw my first chicken beheading here. So easy and quick. Chop and flick. ...Death that resembles flicking a glob of wax off your finger is very disconcerting.


Bicycle Rickshaw at Night

Heaven knows there are plenty of crowds during the day, but even more come out at night when the humidity lets up a bit. Precious bit.


Victoria Memorial

Calcutta was the seat of the British empire in India for its duration (until the last few years when they moved it to New Delhi). This memorial to Queen Victoria remains a popular local icon despite the nasty colonial history.

The Commute

Every morning my 4 rupees are carefully counted and clutched in a sweaty hand. I wait one street down from the municipal water pump near my house - with the equivalent of about 10 cents, I can bump and screech to work on the local bus. For a while I was faithful to the 212 out of a sense of habit and security. But after the ticket man seemed, for all intents and purposes, to deliberately ignore my culturally appropriate bus-beckoning wave (a sort of “bye-bye” hand motion directed at the ground) a couple of times - leaving me a forlorn speck in the rearview mirror - I became a little bitter and began splitting my bus business between them, the 3C/2 and the Prince Anwar Shaw. I’m sure the 212 ticket man has not picked up on my deliberate consumer rebellion, but I’m all for small empowerments.

If several people want to either get on or get off, the bus may actually come to a complete standstill. Otherwise, the lone customer makes a carefully gauged hop as the bus slows down for their convenience. The ticket men, leaning out at each of the two entrances fulfill such duties as handing out bulky bags to the recently exited before the bus speeds off or dragging young children in by the arm as their parent hops up behind them - all the while sing-songing a litany of bus destinations for the route. Human debris in the clear, they then smack smack the side of the bus, signaling the driver to resume his battle with the city traffic.

The golden rules of Calcutta driving:
If there is a small pocket of space in front of you, thou shall occupy it at all costs.
If you see anything at all move in your field of vision, thou shall honk thy horn at it vigorously.
If drivers or pedestrians do not clearly wave their intentions to enter close to your vehicle, thou shall pretend they don’t exist and continue driving at a normal, breakneck speed.

Inside the bigger ones, long bench seats line the four sides of the bus. Pleasantly, the bus is sex segregated with curly-cued, yellow “ladies” signs painted on the front and right sides. I find it much more pleasant to be squished close to a sweaty, fat, be-saried grandmother then the opposite option. Although that detached, metro-in-rush-hour silent anonymity is maintained on the bus, people will obligingly grab children who are thrown up the bus stairs, children who are about to be thrown sideways by a jolt, and children who are about to be overpowered by the sway of their large backpacks and bags – children really are at a gravitational disadvantage here, the forward progression of the bus being marked by the sharp to and fro jerks of a minor squall.

I cling on and try to mentally will the queasiness of my morning malaria pill to hold off. Through the honking cars, taxis and rickshaws, we bump forwards through morning congestion. The sidewalks burble with people at the tea stands and opening up kiosks. Up to Deshpriya Park, left onto Rash Behari and down to my landmark (the “Cake and Bake” shop), juggling my bulky computer bag and bottled water, I literally hop off to work.

Educational Campaigns

I have been extremely impressed with the municipal government of Calcutta. They seem to be sincerely committed to the launch of public educational campaigns. I've seen flashing electronic signs, similar to the "caution, delays ahead" variety, on the highway advising against pollution and its effects on global warming. These billboards on HIV/AIDS dot the urban landscape in both Bengali and English - nestled in amongst the towering pictures of Bollywood stars selling coke and ornate, gold wedding jewelry.

One NGO in Calcutta has had great success with reaching long distance truck drivers - a group that is particularly vulnerable. They send out a worker in a giant condom costume to patrol rest stops and hand out free condoms. Apparently it has gone over well. ...I would dearly love to see such a giant condom man.

Although countries in Africa have the highest percentages globally in terms of citizens infected by HIV/AIDS out of the total national population, India is about to take the lead in pure numbers. Happily the government, in West Bengal at least, seems to have decided to commit to step up the pace. That's a small victory for communism on the ground, I guess. -The government here has been dominated by the socialist party since the 70s, unique in this aspect from greater democratic India.

The Rickshaw

Calcutta is the last home of the human rickshaw. A rickshaw pulled by the labor of a man's body alone. I hear tell that you can take tourist pictures with non-operational ones in Hong Kong, but that's the limit of the rickshaw runner's influence in the modern world of transportation. This of course does not include the popular bicycle rickshaw nor the automotive rickshaw still popular throughout Asia.

Of course, historically, they were all over the place. Rich people always seemed to find it convenient to be borne aloft upon the shoulders of the economically disadvantaged - in whatever carriage, litter form available.
I always thought palanquins would be kind of romantic. ...but the jostling must have been fierce.

Today the debate rages (although I guess only locally?) - is the rickshaw a human rights violation and a municipal embarrassment? Or is it honest, sustainable labor?

It's certainly a preferred option for old ladies and mothers with small children. And considering how people drive around here (the bus I was on today narrowly missed killing someone, although the motorbike was not so fortunate, being crunched under us like so much tin foil) I can certainly appreciate how one would value transportation options.