India Retrospective, henna

Navdha invited J and myself to join her and her family for her henna party at her family home. When we arrived some of Navdha's female relatives had already had their hands decorated with elaborate designs. As their guest, Nav and her family insisted that I should go next and no amount of protest would dissuade them that Navdha should go before me.

Two henna artists had been employed for the evening, and they were artists. Working from a catalogue of traditional designs stored in their heads, with swift confident hands they created intricate works of art on our hands.


I think that each design has some significance but the henna artists did not speak English and to be fair there was too much work to be done to spend time explaining things to me. Here is what I remember; obviously the main focus is the bride and groom and the palms of the hands are decorated with symbols to bring them long life, happiness and (I think) to bless them with children.


The symbols on the back of the hands are to protect and bring good fortune to me and to the bride’s brother (I hope I have remembered this correctly and that some one will correct me if I have not).


Look how intricate the designs are. I can't remember exactly how long this took but it was certainly less than an hour.

The whole evening had the feeling of a hen party, although there was no alcohol involved of course. There was music and singing and a lot of giggling. Every one was keen to admire the artwork on each other’s hands.






Our visit to India coincided with an auspicious time for weddings and during our stay we met several brides. From my experiences I recognised their henna'd hands, their bangles and the red dye in their hair parting. Particularly, in the rural areas while I was keen to examine the rustic henna designs on their hands, they excitedly took my hands in theirs and turned them back and forth while exclaiming in words I could not understand but with admiration that needed no translation (not of my hands you understand but the exquisite art work that they temporarily displayed).

Shopping in Delhi

We don't have anything planned for our first afternoon in Delhi so we arrange for our driver to take us shopping, mainly to have a suit made for J. The driver takes us first to a tourists' bazaar. Through the main entrance there is a warren of shops spread over 3 floors. Each shop keeper tries to entice you into his store "just for a look". The goods they have to show us are beautiful; wood carvings, marble ornaments, paintings on silk, carpets and embroidered wall hangings. I would love to browse but I don't feel comfortable looking at things I've no intention of buying. A carpet salesman was especially persistent, his silk chain-stitched rugs were beautiful and he keep bringing more and more to show us. I would have loved one but they are out of our budget and not what we have come for. It takes a long time to escape him and he will try again later to sell us something. Upstairs, in the tailors we come under the same pressure to purchase but at least this is what we have come for. First we select the fabric, then the style from the samples that they bring out. After negotiating a price Jon is measured from head to toe. His suits will be ready in 2 days but we will be in Chandigarh, so we arrange to collect them when we return to Delhi in 5 days.

Next we want to buy a hat for J (he left his at home). After trying a couple of shops without success our driver takes us to an underground market. To enter we have to pass through a bomb detector. This is a real maze, I quickly become disorientated and I am very pleased that the driver is there to guide us through. Inside it is hot that the air is filled with smoky incense - insect repellent, I think. It is as if a small boy is running ahead of J and I calling out "the tourists are coming". Before us men step out of each tiny shop and call out, "Ma'am, Sir. Come in. Look here". I don't like to simply ignore them, that feels rude, but any words, even "No, thank you" seem to encourage them and they call to us more. It was both exciting and intimidating at the same time. I was very nervous about pick-pockets, the narrow alley ways are crowded. I am a little ashamed to think of them all as untrustworthy but I remind myself that I feel the same way in my home town when the shops are crowded.

Finally we find a baseball cap for J and a skirt and top for me. We were please that we had negotiated a good price but later we realised that we had paid 1,000 rupees more than we agreed because they took payment from both J and me without us realising it!

10 April - Arrival

Beginning our descent the landscape looked almost familiar - fields, towns, rivers and roads in miniature below me. Gradually things began to look less familiar, I could make out the flat-roofed, square buildings that were squeezed into every available space. Then, as the aircraft swept low over Delhi for our final approach, I could see the tiny breeze block huts and tarpaulin covered A-frame tents that are home for the residents of India's slums.

Our passage through arrivals at Indira Gandhi International Airport was straight forward and our local guild, holding aloft a card with our names, was there waiting for us - a great relief after all the tales we had been told of Indian inefficiency and bureaucratic red tape.

Outside the heat hits you like a wall - you can smell it - and your ears are assaulted by traffic noise, especially the ceaseless hooting of horns.

Our drive to the hotel is like a theme park ride, the driver darting in and out of other road users, hitting his horn for the vehicle in front to move aside when there is no way around. I am too busy watching the road ahead to take in much of my surroundings but already we are astonished by the variety of road users - every kind of motorised vehicle you can imagine, bikes, rickshaws and tuktuks, carts drawn by hand, horse, donkey or cattle and amid all this pedestrians and animals wandering freely.




The driver tells us that to drive safely in Delhi you need 3 things: a good horn, good breaks and good luck!

Incredible India

It is 4.30 in the morning, still dark and very still. For a moment I am not sure where I am, but gradually my body recognises the familiar comfort of my own bed and I remember that I am home. A twist in my stomach tells me that I need the bathroom urgently, a feeling that I have lived with for the last fifteen days despite the care I have taken with food and drinks. As I step out of bed, the carpeted floor feels strange to my feet, which have become used to the cool marble tiles of hotel bedrooms. In Delhi it is 9.00 am and a new day has begun. The roads are full of every type of transport imaginable, all weaving in and out of each other, trying to get ahead. The air, already hot, will be filled with the pollution of exhaust fumes and a cacophony of horns, shouts and engine noise. The children that attend school will already be at their lessons in their smart uniforms. Those who don’t attend school face a day working beside their parents, peddling souvenirs or begging from tourists.

My adventure is over and it has been an incredible one. I have seen two extremes of life in India, from the lavish extravagances of a Hindu wedding, to the unbelievable poverty that is everyday life for the average family. I have experienced the selfless hospitality and generosity of two families to whom we were effectively strangers. So many people have tried relentlessly to extract money from us, by fair means or foul, that I have become cynical and untrusting. My eyes have been dazzled by the rainbow of colours everywhere; the roadside stalls selling fruit and vegetables; the ladies' saris that sparkle with beads, sequins and metallic threads; the brightly painted auto rickshaws with their gleaming chrome, and they have looked away in disgust from the filth and squalor that is the backdrop from which the colours shine out.

Here, the birds that are so familiar to me are just beginning to sing, tuning up for the morning chorus that I so love to hear but deep in my ears there is a faint echo of the calls of the all exotic birds that I have seen and heard. I have opened the window so that I can hear them better. Tinkabelle, having picked daintily at her breakfast, is curled on the settee under the window, her ears twitching constantly. It occurs to me that she may be better feed than some of the children that I have seen play by the roadside.

I have seen and done so many wonderful things in the last two weeks my head is buzzing with the memory of them all, but in those first few moments while I tried to remember where I was, one image played on my minds eye. The pretty face of a small girl we encountered 3 days ago in Jaiphur. Her green dress is filthy and her hair matted with dirt but her cheeks are plump, her eyes bright and her teeth strong and white. She is a professional beggar, sent by her parents to entice money from softhearted foreigners. With one hand she tugs my skirt to get my attention, with the other hand she gestures to her mouth that she wants money for food. She looks into my face with pleading eyes and her most beguiling smile. I have been subjected to this so many times now that my heart has hardened to it and I try to walk away without responding. She continues to tug my skirt and constantly manoeuvres to stay in front of me. “Please, madam, please.” I tell her I don’t have any change and she immediately replies, “the ice-cream man has change” and tries to tug me in his direction. I nearly give into her pleas but a glance around me takes in more children and beggars gathering around, if I open my purse for her they will all press closer and hold out their hands for rupees. I shake my head firmly, push her hand away and avert my eyes.

Laying here in my comfortable bed with clean sheets, I am full of remorse. I don’t know what difference 10 rupees would make to her but I know that it would have done more good for her gain 10 rupees than it would have harmed me to part with it.