This was surreal in itself, sitting in a concert hall in Kolkata listening to Viennese waltzes being played ( and jolly good it was too- even when they invited a local choir to perform with them and they went very ethnic). This resulted in the first half of the concert being extended by 40 minutes, and I was ready to slink out quietly if the full programme was to go on beyond 11.30pm. However, after a twenty minute interval, they played one short piece for the second half, decided that enough was enough and stopped, before deciding that a 30 minute encore was in order. There were BIG signs up about no recording, photos or mobile phones in the auditorium. These were of course totally ignored by everyone and the music was punctuated by constant flash photography and mobiles going off. I was also surrounded by children who had all fallen asleep within about 15 minutes of the concert starting.
Second up was a total fluke. I was just about to go and find the botanical garden one Sunday morning when I got a call from another lady who has been working with the IICP. Diboo is a medical student, staying with family in Kolkata and is also an Indian singer, and so had been invited to a day long festival of Indian music at the Birla temple concert hall. (very swanky..invite only...you just have to know the right people). So I, Suzanne (the other IICP volunteer) and Diboo sat listening to the absolute top Indian singers, timbala and sitar players all morning. Now I ain't an expert on ragas...Diboo explained some of the nuances to me, but at the end of the day (and I apologise to those who love them and I admit to being a total philistine)I didn't get it. The first movement sounded like the guitar player was tuning up and lasted a long time (a very long time- I popped out midway through to find the facilities and call Rita, and they were still tuning up when I got back). The second bit got kinda funky once the timbala payer had joined in, and by the time they got to the finale I was really into it- except the third bit was really quite short. I couldn't work out what the apprentice sitar players were there for because they just sat and meditated ( or slept) though the entire thing. They looked good at least!!
The final one was a typically surreal Indian experience. I had seen a concert by a local Dance School advertised on the street and as it was Indianand Western dance it sounded liked fun. As I bought a ticket they looked somewhat surprised and unprepared for strangers to come in off the street but for Rs55 ( erm about 80p) what did I have to lose? The first challenge was finding the place- and it took two policeman to show me. It was below a distinctly dodgy looking ಇಂಡಿಯನ್ hotel, but once Id descended into the bowels there was a a fabulous statue of the guy who ( I think) had set up the dance school and a wonderfully atmospheric old style theatre ( a bit damp and musty, but it didn't smell as bad as the multiplex cinema I visited last week- more of which later). 
The concert was actually the term end display of what the students had actually learned. The entertainment was the 20 minutes of setting up before each 3 minute performance. Anyone who has watched Roadies set up before a rock concert will know that shifting equipment, wiring up microphones and constant “testing testing 1...2...3..” can be riotous fun. Why you cannot walk on, plug in your guitar and play is beyond me. Did they really need an effects pedal to play “au clair de la lune”? I confess I didn't even last until the Indian dance section. I managed three sets of guitar solos, and gave up when they got to the concerto for 16 harmonicas- all tuned to just a slightly different tone. It was excruciatingly good fun, and the serried ranks of parents seemed to be enjoying themselves, although very few were paying any attention to the concert. Im sure you had to be there to understand it!!
My final cultural experience was “Little Zizou” (an english/gujuarati film), playing at the South City Mall. ( Big air conditioned western style place with Marks and Sparks, a Nike shop and mulitplex cinema- I go here from time to time to feel like I'm not in India, until I walk into a shop and get attacked by bored, extremely helpful shop assistants who have made it their mission to sell me something. Browsing alone is definitely not permitted in these places). There are only a few films in English, and they are 3 -6 months later than we have them so this was the first thing I hadn't seen and actually fancied. First the ticket booth test; which one to approach? I stood in line and then realised the sign said telephone bookings only. Then I went to the other line and watched as one couple seemed to be buying a season ticket- which entitled them to free popcorn or something. Whatever it was took 10 minutes and I am not a patient man. By the time I was at the front of the queue, it was almost past the time of the film, but I was of course in the wrong place and had to go back to the original telephone booking line to pay my 2 pounds for a ticket. The cinema looked like any big screen- except I had a numbered ticket, the usher showed me to my place in one corner where all 15 of us were sitting. A fetid smell of damp pervaded the air. Despite the heat, Indian people are fastidiously clean and unlike anywhere else in the world, I haven't smelt body odour as I travel around (except my own of course). This wasn't BO, it was just wet, as though mould was growing on the seats.
The film started on Indian standard time – about 25 minutes after the advertised hour., there was one minute of static adverts ( no Pearl and Dean stuff here, no trailers for upcoming features...). Loved the film – go see it if you can as the characters are hilarious and the story engaging enough. Wasn't so sure about the need for an interval...when they just stopped the film, put the lights up and a guy tried to force me to buy popcorn from a newspaper bag. He was still at it when they restarted the film, and 5 minutes later they remembered that films are generally more visible when the house lights are switched off!.
I'm sure I'll get to love this country. Its a wonderful mix of anarchy, bureaucracy and muddling through so things kind of come together, but not quite how I expect them. Everyone, except the West Bengal Tourist Office and Mr Ghost at the Tollygunge club, is friendly, even if sometimes their idea of help is infuriatingly close to, but ultimately short of what real help looks like. ( Ranu is excepted from this- I would have exploded in frustration by now if it were not for her smile, her lilting, laughing voice as she sorts out my little problems and sets me up for travels and travails).
Food and Haldiran
Second up was a total fluke. I was just about to go and find the botanical garden one Sunday morning when I got a call from another lady who has been working with the IICP. Diboo is a medical student, staying with family in Kolkata and is also an Indian singer, and so had been invited to a day long festival of Indian music at the Birla temple concert hall. (very swanky..invite only...you just have to know the right people). So I, Suzanne (the other IICP volunteer) and Diboo sat listening to the absolute top Indian singers, timbala and sitar players all morning. Now I ain't an expert on ragas...Diboo explained some of the nuances to me, but at the end of the day (and I apologise to those who love them and I admit to being a total philistine)I didn't get it. The first movement sounded like the guitar player was tuning up and lasted a long time (a very long time- I popped out midway through to find the facilities and call Rita, and they were still tuning up when I got back). The second bit got kinda funky once the timbala payer had joined in, and by the time they got to the finale I was really into it- except the third bit was really quite short. I couldn't work out what the apprentice sitar players were there for because they just sat and meditated ( or slept) though the entire thing. They looked good at least!!
The final one was a typically surreal Indian experience. I had seen a concert by a local Dance School advertised on the street and as it was Indianand Western dance it sounded liked fun. As I bought a ticket they looked somewhat surprised and unprepared for strangers to come in off the street but for Rs55 ( erm about 80p) what did I have to lose? The first challenge was finding the place- and it took two policeman to show me. It was below a distinctly dodgy looking ಇಂಡಿಯನ್ hotel, but once Id descended into the bowels there was a a fabulous statue of the guy who ( I think) had set up the dance school and a wonderfully atmospheric old style theatre ( a bit damp and musty, but it didn't smell as bad as the multiplex cinema I visited last week- more of which later). 
The concert was actually the term end display of what the students had actually learned. The entertainment was the 20 minutes of setting up before each 3 minute performance. Anyone who has watched Roadies set up before a rock concert will know that shifting equipment, wiring up microphones and constant “testing testing 1...2...3..” can be riotous fun. Why you cannot walk on, plug in your guitar and play is beyond me. Did they really need an effects pedal to play “au clair de la lune”? I confess I didn't even last until the Indian dance section. I managed three sets of guitar solos, and gave up when they got to the concerto for 16 harmonicas- all tuned to just a slightly different tone. It was excruciatingly good fun, and the serried ranks of parents seemed to be enjoying themselves, although very few were paying any attention to the concert. Im sure you had to be there to understand it!!
My final cultural experience was “Little Zizou” (an english/gujuarati film), playing at the South City Mall. ( Big air conditioned western style place with Marks and Sparks, a Nike shop and mulitplex cinema- I go here from time to time to feel like I'm not in India, until I walk into a shop and get attacked by bored, extremely helpful shop assistants who have made it their mission to sell me something. Browsing alone is definitely not permitted in these places). There are only a few films in English, and they are 3 -6 months later than we have them so this was the first thing I hadn't seen and actually fancied. First the ticket booth test; which one to approach? I stood in line and then realised the sign said telephone bookings only. Then I went to the other line and watched as one couple seemed to be buying a season ticket- which entitled them to free popcorn or something. Whatever it was took 10 minutes and I am not a patient man. By the time I was at the front of the queue, it was almost past the time of the film, but I was of course in the wrong place and had to go back to the original telephone booking line to pay my 2 pounds for a ticket. The cinema looked like any big screen- except I had a numbered ticket, the usher showed me to my place in one corner where all 15 of us were sitting. A fetid smell of damp pervaded the air. Despite the heat, Indian people are fastidiously clean and unlike anywhere else in the world, I haven't smelt body odour as I travel around (except my own of course). This wasn't BO, it was just wet, as though mould was growing on the seats.
The film started on Indian standard time – about 25 minutes after the advertised hour., there was one minute of static adverts ( no Pearl and Dean stuff here, no trailers for upcoming features...). Loved the film – go see it if you can as the characters are hilarious and the story engaging enough. Wasn't so sure about the need for an interval...when they just stopped the film, put the lights up and a guy tried to force me to buy popcorn from a newspaper bag. He was still at it when they restarted the film, and 5 minutes later they remembered that films are generally more visible when the house lights are switched off!.
I'm sure I'll get to love this country. Its a wonderful mix of anarchy, bureaucracy and muddling through so things kind of come together, but not quite how I expect them. Everyone, except the West Bengal Tourist Office and Mr Ghost at the Tollygunge club, is friendly, even if sometimes their idea of help is infuriatingly close to, but ultimately short of what real help looks like. ( Ranu is excepted from this- I would have exploded in frustration by now if it were not for her smile, her lilting, laughing voice as she sorts out my little problems and sets me up for travels and travails).
Food and Haldiran
The food here has been great ( except the chinese restaurant I visited with Suzanne one evening where they brought out warm coke which tasted awful, and vegetable noodles laced with chicken। Oh and nowhere in my area serves beer...which isn't a major problem because the lassi and salted lime juice are great but some days I just feel like a long cool one to go with my curry). Everyone started giving me western food. I got a cheese and tomato sandwich my first day at the IICP- now they just serve me the regular meal everyone gets- which is always delicious. They do good catering here! My maid gave me boiled chicken for the first two weeks until I asked for something Indian. Now I get it with spices and dall (much better). I do seem to get the same each week- so Monday is always egg curry at the IICP and also at home. Its possibly just as well I have the place to myself!!
Jobba (okay it may be Jabba- but she doesn't look anything like Jabba the Hut from Star Wars) caters in the week, and weekends I go out. I have been invited out a few times, and I have found two or three really nice restaurants, plus Azad Hind, the local takeaway which does wicked chicken tikka rolls- freshly made as I wait. This is the closest I have got to street food and I'm not planning on going any further. My stomach is just about getting used to the local bacteria!
I did discover Haldiran – which is a vegetarian sweets and fast food joint, with a supermarket above which is a world of wonderful discovery. I have tried so many different fruit juices now. The Ley berry stuff did go in the bin even though it is supposed to be great for cholesterol. It went all silty and sludgy after a day and I decided that mango and guava nectars were much nicer.
I have had Dhosas ( paper thin rolled pancake with massala), and a number of other great dishes. None of them taste like “English Curry house fare.” and chicken tikka masala really does come from Bradford because you cannot get it here! Whilst spicy, nothing has been unpleasantly hot. I had prawns in mustard sauce- typically Bengali apparently- which is to die for. Ive also had Raj food ( chicken cutlets with a spicy breadcrumb coating and chips) which is also interesting. Not quite English, not quite Indian, but yummy! I also have the ubiquitous mailshot from Dominos pizza and so one night I promise I am going to try their “two for one on Large sizes” and gorge myself on some weird Indian Pizza flavours. I bet they won't find me in 15 minutes either so they may end up paying me for the privilege of my custom.
No comments:
Post a Comment