Category Archives: Love

The Loving Enchantress of Family

‘There where the waves spray
The feet of solitary reefs…
A loving enchantress
Gave me her talisman.
She told me with tenderness:
You must not lose it,
Its power is infallible,
Love gave it to you.’
Alexander Pushkin, ‘The Talisman’

Let’s be fair, to use a quote from a Russian author of great repute is a little bit pompous but even if it is, in this case I think it describes beautifully to me the subject of this week’s blog. I came across this additional quote recently that also made me think about the same subject and it too sums up my feelings nicely.

‘Now and again in these parts, you come across people so remarkable that, no matter how much time has passed since you met them, it is impossible to recall them without your heart trembling.’
Nikolai Leskov, ‘Lady Macbeth of Mtsenski’

Those who know me well, won’t be overly surprised to see me quoting Russian authors. While not a fanatic, I have always been drawn to the power and drama of Russian writers. I love the intrigue and power plays, especially in the pre-Russian revolution era. I am however not about to go down the route of discussing Russian literature. This is a skill that far exceeds my limited talents.

No, these quotes reminded me of something perhaps far mundane than Russian literature although for me something far more real and far more important. These quotes brought to mind the power and love of my extended family; common parlance calls us, ‘The Hogans’.

Alandi Anette 15 May-1-83Reality is that we are far from ‘The Hogans’ that once existed when the last of the modern core Hogan family was born in 1948 (my mother as it happens). We are the Hogan clan yet so many of us are a generation if not even two generations away from the original Hogan title. Some of us may not even share the blood of the Hogans but through upbringing and shared experiences are as very much a Hogan as anybody else. For we are Ironsides, Lydons, McDonalds, McCarthneys, O’Sheas, Donaldsons, Farrellys, Healys, Gallaghers, Scanlons, Bantins, Mathers, Buckleys, Warrens, Carrolls and probably many more that I cannot keep track of. What unites us all though is the strength of identity and indeed the strength of personality of twelve brothers and sisters. For us first cousins, these aunts and uncles; mothers or fathers are the originals – the very heart and soul of the Hogan clan.

The Hogans had always played a key role in my life: my summers were spent with cousins Alice, Brid and Una. Alice was also there for some of my first alcohol experiences as I was there for hers (least said about that the better!). My adolescent years were spent with my Aunty Mai winding me up and my cousin, Kathy (her daughter) happily helping her. My Aunty Ann would take me swimming in the rivers near their house while Uncle Vinny took me out on the family farm and showed me how to herd cattle. I still use the breathing method cousin Clare thought me one summer so I could swim further under water. Uncle Frank and Aunty Marie along with their daughter, Roisin, gave me my first experience of spending time with someone with a disability and seeing how disability makes you no different than you would be different without the disability.

Later, Aunty Robin in England with her husband Brian, provided me with a respite from London when things got very hard. They were my escape, they gave me the ability to call them on a Friday night and say, ‘is it ok if I come on the next train?’ Their daughter Maureen allowed me be her bridesmaid, terrifyingly about 30 years ago. Uncle Don, the history professor, helped me prepare for my final history exams in school. My cousin Carol in England, gave me the chance to spend time her in her school before my teacher training interview so at least I could pretend I knew something about the English education system. I could go on. We are family that supports each other (while of course being busy winding each other up and talking very loudly at each other!).

For many years, I didn’t value the Hogan family. I loved spending time with them but I didn’t recognise just how important having a family identity was. I didn’t see just how lucky I was to have such a powerful strong group behind me who would support me through to the ends of time; through arguments and laughter, this group would always be there for each other.

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my husband, Chris with our nephew and our little cousin.
My husband, also comes from a very strong family, one with an extremely strong family identity. He opened my eyes up to this power. From day one, he made it clear that in his family, family supported each other no matter what. You may have had a major falling out with someone the day before but if they needed you, you dropped everything and went to help them. His policy has always been that family comes first, that you value whatever moments you can spend with family. Living outside of Ireland, striking the balance between family life and simply life is hard. Chris pushed me to go home more often and never questioned whether we would attend family weddings, funerals or parties. If they were happening and we could find the money to pay for it, then we were going.

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Uncle Joe with our cousin, Niamh
Consequently, I found myself at my Uncle Joe’s 80th birthday party in 2013 in a small town in Ireland called Portlaoise. This is the family base, where the family has been for very many generations and where many of the aunts and uncles have returned to in retirement. Joe had lived for many years in New York and in typical Hogan style had been a tower of strength and support for all the cousins who ventured to the states for work or even just for holidays. All who saw him there returned with stories of his kindness and generosity. It was no surprise therefore that his birthday saw a significant turn out of cousins and all the aunts and uncles. Motivation to attend was also Uncle Martin. Martin was sadly ill with cancer at the time.

 

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cousin, Liam. I may or may not have forgiven him for the nightclub.
This was perhaps the first occasion where most of the cousins in attendance were now adults. Now, I have only vague memories from that very dodgy night club my cousin Liam brought me to the night perhaps I need to black them out for my own sanity! It may have reminded me of my teenage years in some of the rural clubs I used to attend but it was so much fun. Surrounded by my cousins, drinking, laughing and dancing. What could be better?

 

For me the night was a turning point in my understanding of the importance of the Hogan clan. A sad reality was suddenly made clear: Joe was now 80 and my oldest uncle, Uncle Liam was now 87. Martin at 82 had cancer. How much longer could the aunties and uncles be the focal point around which the family pivoted? What would happen when that pivot point no longer was there? What would happen to the strong family unit that was created the day the eldest sibling, Uncle Liam, was born in 1926?

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Uncle Martin
Just three months later Uncle Martin died of colon cancer. He was the first of the 12 brothers and sisters to pass. For all of us it was a heartbreaking moment. Even today, writing this I can’t help but shed a tear. Martin was always adored by us cousins and the memory of his funeral mass trying to comfort my cousin, Brid, when I too was in bits will always stay in my mind. His funeral however cemented the need for us cousins to be proactive about sustaining our relationship in the long term. A week earlier Uncle Denis (our Aunty Brid’s husband) had also died further demonstrating the temporary nature of family and in this case the siblings. The family having attend two funerals over the course of 8 days, led Uncle Don (Peggy’s husband) to comment, ‘Right then, see you all next Monday or maybe I won’t.’ Dark comedy not untypical of Don!

 

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The picture is out of focus but still love it as it is 30 cousins together!
Martin’s funeral was the biggest gathering of cousins ever with 30 first and second cousins. That next morning, I went home and befriended every single cousin I could find on Facebook and I have continued to do so ever since. Consequently, I have from the side lines begun to know what my extended family are doing with their lives. We have a much easier way of contacting each other than dependence on our parents.

 

Now we find our aunties and uncles reduced from 12 to just 9 with Uncle Liam passing on in 2014, Aunty Brid and Aunty Ann (Uncle Vinny’s wife) in 2014.

The family continues to age and but also to grow. Aunty Robin likes a party. Any excuse really. So turning 80 needed a party! Despite moving to London in the early 1950s, she has always been the one with contact with all of the siblings and indeed a lot of the cousins. If you need a message passed to the family, get it to Robin and your work can be considered complete! This family centred focus required therefore her party to be in Ireland! When her daughter, Maureen, pushed her to focus on exactly who was going to the party she declared, ‘Everyone!’. Robin had sent out an open invitation to every Hogan relative not matter how distantly related.

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27 out of the 38 cousins

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47 or so of the first and second cousins. Biggest gathering of cousins ever
Consequently, all her remaining brothers and sisters and their spouses; 27 (of the 38) first cousins; and a further 20 second cousins took up the call. Cousins came from Australia, the UK and us from India. Us Hogans aren’t exactly the quietest bunch in the world so you can imagine the chaos that reigned. Tradition continued and at 4 a.m. I went to bed dragging my reluctant 73 year old Uncle Frank with me! Let’s be fair the only reason the cousins and Uncle Frank ended the sing song was the residents bar refused to serve us. Apparently, 4 a.m. was the breaking point for staff that had been dealing with the Hogan madness for two days.

 

These links will probably only work if you are a member of the Hogan Facebook group. Working on a way to upload them to YouTube and will replace these links when I do.

The traditional start to a Hogan sing song – trying to convince Uncle Frank to sing – while he claims – oh no he couldn’t!

Jon’s first solo song at a Hogan Sing Song – he has sung in national choirs for years though.

Cousin Brid – now she is Uncle Frank’s daughter so no surprise she leads a song

Connor on the harmonica!

The New Aglish Hogan’s in full swing

Una leads the sing song

Very English barber shop, totally at home in our very open family environment. These three are professional or near professional musicians

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Aunty Mai – now the eldest sibling.
Once again, I was struck by just how important family is and sadly just how important it is for us, the next generations of Hogans, to take up the mantle of ensuring that when the older generation is no longer there to provide reasons for us to gather, that we gather anyhow. As a start we now have a Facebook group, Hogan Madness with over 47 members, mainly cousins. We hope this will help us to sustain a relationship that does not pivot around the siblings.

On the other hand maybe the next gathering is still in the hands of the older lot. I believe I heard Aunty Mai declare that, ‘wasn’t the party just great, I think I’ll do this for my 90th next year!’ Kathy and Denis, enjoy the preparations!! Put Chris and I on the guest list because nothing would stop us from being there.

 

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Soaring on the Thermals of Life

A blog is well overdue and indeed a blog about my recent travels to the Maldives is well underway. Life however (largely revolving around scuba-diving while on holidays and then an immediate return to a full house move) has gotten in the way. 

A blog however is needed so I thought I would share with you something I wrote a few months ago based on WordPress writing stimuli. I’d love to know what your answer to the question would be?

My head is a font of ideas and inspiration. My thoughts fly from idea to idea, from location to location: forever dreaming of a better place; a different place; an intriguing place. The world is full of opportunity: a chance to do something different – to be something different.

I am not unhappy in the world I currently occupy; on the contrary, this world is an exciting and thrilling place. This world fills my ordinary every day with excitement. As I sit in the quiet of my rocking chair with my laptop cosily placed on my lap, I look out upon the city placed below me and I understand that out there there is so much that I do not understand, so much that I probably cannot understand. That makes my current life a good life. A life devoid of ignorance is a life of predictability and dullness.

If sitting in my comfortable chair I was however to feel a certain itchiness that slowly became a tugging feeling that slowly pushed me forward in my chair as wings sprouted from my back and gently lifted me into the air, where would I fly? Where given the sudden ability to go wherever I wanted, whenever I want – would I choose to travel?

Where?

onthewaytoRoopkundlakeLITTLE2.jpgWould I go to the soaring mountain tops of the Himalayas and glide through mountain passes (shivering perhaps just a little now that the summer evenings are easing away and becoming increasingly cold)? Or would I gently glide towards the sea and spend my days wafting along the thermals and resting every now and again on the golden beaches of Goa?

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Or would I go further and, like a cormorant, fold my wings and dive deep into the ocean to marvel at a world unseen by most?

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Yes, that’s me with my friend, Turtle.   Picture credit: William Erazo Fernandez

I think perhaps I would not choose to fly to the cities of India, thick with pollution and noise and over-crowding. Where would I rest amongst the broken roofs of the slums and the harsh edges of modernity?

Or would I fly to a person and not a place? Would I fly to someone who will welcome me with open arms despite the rather odd back appendage I had acquired? Would I fly to where I was welcomed and where I felt safe? Do I even want to feel safe?  Is feeling safe really the joy that all purport it to be or rather is feeling totally safe a good thing at all? Is it not better to live life knowing that it all may come tumbling down around you? Are you more likely to take risks and try something new if you know that your chance to do this may not last forever?

My answer to these question is direct. I have no answer and nor do I really want one. I will plan my time, my travel but I will forever be excited by the thrill, the fear, the anticipation of what I do not yet know will come.

Where would you soar on the thermals of life, given the choice?

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Embracing Kasba Peth: Embracing Community

This blog has been produced in collaboration with Deborah Clearwater of Embraced Photography. She is a professional photographer from New Zealand living in Pune, India. 

We have started to have great adventures together. Exploring the streets of Pune, in particular the city centre. Through her pictures, I have an opportunity to explore the beauty of this city in a way that the hustle and bustle of street life doesn’t always give you time to appreciate.

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Recently, we went on an inspiring walk through Kasba Peth. Kasba Peth is the oldest community in the city, dating back to the 5th century. Most of the housing however dates back to the time of the Peshwars who ruled Pune prior to British colonialism. The 16th century housing is not subject to protection orders; there is no money to invest in its maintenance. As you read this blog, buildings may be tumbling down taking their very many occupants with them.

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Life is on the streets: a wire recycler – stripping the copper out of old electrical wires

The streets are narrow and circuitous – paths developed over thousands of years of occupation. Some wide enough for a car (a slow moving car), others for a motorbike or perhaps a rickshaw, others again for only a bicycle but most can only be seen on foot.

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Kasba Peth: where the young and old live together harmoniously 

Life slows down on these streets. People loiter in the doorways talking to their neighbours or the women wash their clothes communally in a the washing areas – nattering and gossiping as can only happen when a group of women get together. Children run from house to house, no house really their particular home – all houses feel like home. They just happen to sleep in one particular place! All tenderly rub the children’s hair as they run by or scold them when they’ve been naughty. Bloodlines run thick through these streets but bloodlines do not seem to define family – love and care defines the family and no shared blood is needed for this.

As an outsider such communities can feel intimidating. You don’t know how they work, you don’t know how easily you could cause offence or intrude. Chalo Heritage Walks however have taken what in our minds is quite a unique slant on how to walk through these communities. Rashid and his (Irish) wife Jan have developed over the years a close relationship with the community in Kasba Peth.

They have watched the children grow up and celebrated their achievements and advised when necessary. On first going to the area, they took the time to sit with the locals: pass the time with them, talk seriously with them and laugh with them. As a consequence, it appears to both of us from the two walks that we have now done with them, the community engage with them and don’t see the foreign tourists they bring to the area as intruders but love the fact that they are interested in their little community.

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This fruit seller insisted that Deborah take her picture. Proud of her community and her role in it. 

Deborah has always had a strong interest in people but I think for me the more I live in India they more I realise that I am an ‘anthropologist’ at heart. I want to be able to understand what makes people tick; and how people live. This interests me far more than the history of a palace or a visit to a temple. These places do not reflect the lives of the ordinary people. They only reflect the lives of those lucky enough to achieve high status or indeed were born into privilege. City tours therefore can sometimes fill me with dread. The idea of traipsing from one monument to the next and one historic building to the next is unutterably boring. To wander through the same streets but stop and look down little alley ways; to try and speak to the locals; to simply stop and sit and observe – that to me is a tour worth doing.

Neither Deborah or myself will be paid by Chalo Heritage Walks for writing this blog but rather this is a reflection of what we have gained from them that we feel we couldn’t necessarily get from anybody else.

The biggest lesson for us from these tours has been the power of community. In the west we seem to have largely forgotten that a community that supports and loves each other, that provides peer pressure as a means of maintaining positive attitudes and behaviour makes us all stronger and more able to deal with problems as they arise. Yes, there are drawbacks but the drawback of not having a community to fall back on is surely far, far worse.

Reading the newspapers here or indeed following Indian religion and politics from abroad you could be forgiven for thinking that there is a huge animosity between the Hindu and Muslim communities in India. Indeed at times there is. What Kasba Peth made us realise however is that this animosity is not driven by the realities of daily life but rather political manipulation by Hindu nationalists (BJP etc) of sections of society who lack the life experience and education to understand they are being manipulated.

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Vivek in his community. Notice the narrow streets and the children happily playing. 

Along our route on the last tour we did, we met a lovely young man, Vivek – in his early twenties, total Bollywood guy: hair styled, clothes sharp but this guy didn’t lack brains, rather he is studying an MBa in Finance. He grew up in poverty, living in conditions rarely seen now in the west – yet he finished school, finished a degree and now is completing an MBa.

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‘Is it safe to come out Vivek?’

While chatting to us and while of course Deborah was taking many photographs of this highly photogenic young guy, we noticed out of the corner of our eye, this little, little girl – perhaps 18 months old peeking out through some doors at us and this man.
The young man upon spotting her put out his hand and beckoned her to come out and see us. It was so clear from the look on the young man’s face and that of the little girl that they knew each other and trusted each other. She remained however too nervous to venture any further than her peek hole by the door.

So how does this interaction relate to the question of Hindu and Muslim animosity – well this little girl is Muslim and this young man is Hindu. Is this an anomaly? Not in this community. Wandering through the streets you see women in full hijab laughing with Hindu women – hanging out on the door steps. You see the meat market where in order to make sure both Hindu and Muslim clients can buy all the meat – the muslims butcher all the animals making sure the meat is Halal. Muslim and Hindu butchers share a small space. In order to cause no offence to either side, the Muslims have never sold beef (although it is now illegal in Maharashtra anyhow!) and the Hindus do not sell pork.  They could have chosen to have separate butcheries and have Muslims buy the halal meat and Hindus their pork. However they have chosen not to render division in the community, rather for centuries they have a sought a way to work together in peace.

A tour of temples and historical monuments would fail to bring across this great harmonious relationship. Certainly, at times, a fragile relationship but one that is ultimately built on trust. As you wander through the streets you notice that Muslims will say, ‘namaste or namaskar’ to Hindus while Hindus will say, ‘As-Salaam-Alaikum’ to a Muslim. Why? It is a traditional way of trying to accommodate yourself to others while they try and accommodate themselves to your way. There is perhaps a lesson there to learn in relation to the current world refugee crisis.

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Notice the black mark on this boy’s face: his parents warding off evil that may take his life while he is young

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Kasba Peth is an area that experiences severe hardships. There is a daily struggle for the very basics: water, food and money to educate the children. The children’s toys are old and often broken – yet they still find as much joy in them as they would something brand new. The younger children are often marked with black spots (they look like growths to the outsider) intended to ward away evil. Children die young in India and many are not even named until they are a few months old – to ease the pain if they are to die.

You are not however met with a grimace but rather an open welcoming smile. You can be certain that this community would give you the last of their food if they felt that would make you more welcome. They stop and give you the time from their busy lives to chat and share stories.

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This lady may be recovering from a major operation but that doesn’t stop her being the heart of the community

As my Hindi improves, this becomes an ever more enlightening experience. There is the lady who has had a triple heart by-pass but who proudly stands at her door and tells you just how well she is doing, while her husband is at his printing press next door that only prints lines for exercise books.

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Peek a boo works in any language!

There was the little boy we met – his mother an itinerant builder. Kasba Peth was only her home for a few weeks. This is a woman who lives at a level of poverty even more extreme than that of her temporary neighbours. Yet this woman still took the time to stop and enjoy the sight of her little son playing peek-a-boo with Deborah.

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There was the extended family of two grandmothers, their daughters and their daughters’ children. One grandmother took the time to explain who everyone was, how long they have lived in the area. All to a woman with dodgy Hindi while Deborah was busy taking their photographs.

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The youngest grandchild and his caring sister / cousin

It is a two-way street however. Rashid and Jan make sure that their guests take as many pictures of the people as they can. Their guests then send the pictures to them, they print them and then distribute them when they next do a tour.

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They were clear from the beginning that they did not want the relationship to be financially based. They wanted the community to get something from the visitors but not to depend on them. We met a little boy that said he was collecting foreign coins – on the last visit Rashid had given him some. However, he told the boy that he wanted to see his collection. If he genuinely was interested, then he would encourage his visitors to donate foreign coins if they had them. He insisted however that it be a genuine hobby and not just something he would take and do nothing with.

Jan, who has become a friend, recently forwarded me an article about a woman in Kolkata who has started a project of taking pictures of the poor and distributing them. She said she was struck by how many adults said they had a picture of themselves but when they produced it, it was simply their ID photo. She was also struck by the fact that many parents had no pictures of their children. Something we all love to have, to reflect on as our kids as they grow older.

In India however a lack of photos can have a dark side. What happens if your child gets lost or worse again is kidnapped and trafficked? How can the police and various agencies help you if you can’t even give them a picture of their child? Suddenly, upon reading the article, the work that Jan and Rashid do in the area became even more important.

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This woman is so incredibly beautiful and her saree is just perfect for her. She look so old despite her beauty but when I asked, she is only 50. Life ages you when life is not easy. 

To walk through the streets of Kasba Peth has to be my very favourite thing to do. The over-powering sense of community; the beauty of the women’s sarees; the smiles on people’s faces despite the hardships they endure; and the higgledy-piggledy nature of the streets is uplifting while at the same time reinforcing just how lucky I am to live where I am and to be free of all of those struggles that the inhabitants of Kasba Peth experience daily.

So my friend Gillian (mentioned in my last blog) arrives tomorrow for two weeks and both Deborah and I will once again do the Chalo Heritage Walk tour. I can’t wait to see what I will experience this time round.

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Jugaad! In Other Words Bodge It And Scarper!

India gets to you with its beauty, its people and the chaos! It gets you in ways that you could never expect. On the other hand, I have found myself more frustrated here than perhaps anywhere else I have ever been.

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Note the shelf with no lip!

The washing machine fell off its shelf a few days ago – yes shelf! Why? Because the company who built this apartment block insisted the shelf – 4 foot off the ground – was safe for a heavy as hell washing machine. Shock and awe, one morning I heard a bang so loud that I jumped to my feet and sprinted to the dry balcony! I was met by a washing machine on its side and a spray of water to challenge any Icelandic geyser! Surprise, surprise the washing machine had fallen off! Since then I have discovered that lots of people are worried about how their washing machines move in this and other apartment blocks and that at least four have fallen off in an identical development before mine did!

01971d8cc71a420c5e880be3220c4748Now once again there is a battle; once again I am losing access to my own time; once again I spend all day at home not being able to deal with things and get things done because some bureaucratic shit (excuse the language but I expect everyone one lives in or has ever lived in India will forgive me!) has to happen first! In all the years I have lived in rented accommodation, I haven’t had as many issue as I have right now and this is meant to be high calibre, aspirational housing!

Mix that in with the power and influence game that is being played and it gets even more frustrating. The company who found us our apartment won’t blame the real people responsible – the developers, because they want to place more people into their developments because for every rental agreement they get at least a months rent and have priority over many of the developers apartment rentals.

That relationship, therefore, is far more important than ours because they’e made ethics-2their money off us so now they can move on. Consequently, it seems they are raising a complaint against the washing company that installed the machine. This is despite the fact that the company argued for more than 30 minutes that to place it on the shelf was quite simply dangerous. They eventually agreed only because I was eventually convinced, oh my newbie in India innocence, by the smiles and guarantees from the developers that it was safe! Idiot! I have argued that to do this is morally as wrong as it can get, that responsibility for this situation lies solely with the developers but no, I am wrong! Why? That never quite seems to be answered unless it is with meaningless platitudes.

This is just typical India – on the surface all is well and full of smiles – underneath however is a bodge job – misjudged and ill thought out. It is a platitude filled land. You say or do what you have to do to be able to get away with it and then you get the ‘hell out of Dodge!’ and whatever you do – don’t look back to check to make sure Dodge isn’t on fire – if it was, it wouldn’t be your responsibility, that’s for certain!

I love India – possibly, I have even fallen in love with India. India however is like the lover who makes you float upon clouds of joy and happiness only then to thump you around the face after a few too many glasses of wine. Allow yourself to get comfortable and a little bit confident here and something will always come your way that tries to break you!

Frustration builds up here at all the little half completed jobs or bodge job completions. There is actually a word for it in India – jugaad! Yes, they have a word that clearly recognises the Indian ability to not quite finish a job right or just to make it look on the surface all right!

Hilariously, when speaking in the past tense, my Hindi teacher tells me that most people speak in the Passive Voice e.g. Active voice – I built the wardrobe. Passive voice – The wardrobe was built by me. By using the active voice like in English, you are taking responsibility for the action, the person doing the action is more important than the action itself. In English, we usually only use the passive voice when the subject is not important only the object, for example in a report or a scientific experiment. In this case we normally omit the actor, ‘by me’ as the outcome or the c3IHv9bprocess is all you care about.

The grammar is exactly the same in Hindi but rather than use it in quite specific circumstances, people use it nearly all the time when speaking about the past. So therefore if you say, ‘John was collected from reception by me’, you are also saying, if John wasn’t meant to have been collected well its just not my fault!’ Culturally in-built grammatical responsibility avoidance! I laughed the day I heard that – as it was also the day that everyone had refused to take responsibility for their own actions in relation to our washing machine!

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Rangoli – a beautiful traditional sand art done outside of your door.

There are exceptions though – there are those who reject Jugaad and find the results of it equally as frustrating as myself and my husband do. For example the lovely lady, Marina who every week does rangoli for me outside me door. She is inspirational in her approach to simply living. They are exceptions however. Some of the guys my husband works with are these exceptions but on the other hand he shockingly realised that he had fundamentally altered the way his department works because he had assumed that the people in charge of completing certain elements of a project were well – responsible for completing that element of the project!

He outrageously assumed as a result that they then had a responsibility for making sure it came in on time and in budget. That assumption apparently left a whole room staggered and concerned that they would have to change the way they worked! Why would you be responsible for the element of a project that your team was solely working on? Crazy eh!

We have been in India now for more than 2 months and I guess we are beginning to move out of the honeymoon period, we are beginning to get an understanding of how the society we are living in works. Thus, we are beginning to see the fundamental cracks in society rather than just assuming that our own individual frustrations were isolated incidences. It is a hard dichotomy to get your head around – the reality of living in India but also just how warm and welcoming everyone is to you. Somehow you imagine that a people who do not consider completing things as promised, on time and to a high standard would therefore also be a mean hearted, selfish people but Indians are not like that. Indians are extremely warm hearted, caring and kind people. It is odd!

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Lovely garland maker who insisted he gave me a carnation after I took this picture!
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The sweetest little girl in the world with such an adorable smile.

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