Working class hero

Jodhpur

India is a country of 1.3 billion people, or thereabouts. Naturally, in a country of that many people, it is not uncommon to find people everywhere. In fact, it’s very common. It’s just a plain fact. There are people everywhere.

Wherever we walk, whether it be down the streets, through the bazaars, along train platforms, in airports, restaurants, wherever you like, there are people. People will walk right in front of you, directly behind you, and beside you, touching your shoulder. This is as natural as a sleep in on Sunday; whilst you (and I) think in strange that a man is practically touching me as I walk, in his mind, he is simply going about his business. No second thought.

Naturally too, all these people need something to do. Whilst I’ve only visited a small slice of India, and whilst I haven’t been to the industrial areas, heavy/light manufacturing areas, nor for that matter, commercial areas, I have walked the streets, and I have been to a few cities.

What I’ve found is this: Everyone is doing something. Not a particularly interesting insight I know, but a useful way to describe the activity of Indian streets. 

But let be clear. Half the people seem to be sitting around doing nothing (this, in a way, is something) whilst the other half are hard at work. Now, work can mean sitting on a stool, sipping chai tea, and minding a shop, occasionally yelling out to tourists, it can also mean smashing a jackhammer in the hot sun, digging a hole, construction, and a whole lot of other tough, physical work. 

So, a typical street scene: men standing around in large groups talking (arguing?) with each other; people minding stores, people cooking and selling food, people bargaining over goods in markets, men sewing, woman washing, people walking, driving, lounging around on tuk-tuks, building, destroying, and reconstructing. 

What I’ve noticed is this. First, specialisation is intense. For instance, a lassi shop will have one person dealing in cash, one person making the drinks, one person handing out the drinks, another taking orders. Everyone is doing something different, something miniscule, and they will do this all day. There was one food store down a lonely back alley, where one guy’s job was solely to hold a bag open will the cook slid a wok full of just cooked noodles. Everyone seems to specialise in the tiniest little thing, and just do that day in, day out. The same goes for work sites. 

Secondly and partly related to the first, it seems as though once one person has found their work, that’s what they do, forever. So, once a man becomes a tailor, that’s his lot. He’s a tailor. It’s the same in our culture, to an extent, but no way near to the same degree. People do all manner of things back home, here, in the much bigger city; they seem to do far less individually, but far more collectively. The fictional protagonist of The White Tiger describes being a 'sweet seller' as moving up a class; I suggest reading the book for much greater insights than I could ever provide. 

Granted, I know little about the caste system (pertaining to the categorisation of jobs into certain caste groups, and the upward/downward mobility of a particularly caste), and I’ve haven’t touched on the financial or economic system, I’ve just touched on a few little observations that I’ve seen while walking the streets.

I wrote an essay once, in one of my university classes, on Asian miracle economies. That was about 4,000 words, and only just begun to describe the dynamics of a major Asian economy. I can’t hope to do any justice do it whatsoever in 500 words. What I can do is leave you with some images that I have seen of people working, and in some ways, pay a small tribute to, as John Lennon would say, the working class hero. 

The Disco King 2.0: Kevin the businessman

Without doubt, the best photo of the trip thus far...

Udaipur

There is one side to the Disco King. The first is that of the fulfiller of dreams, the provider of experiences, the all-knowing, all-seeing wise man of Udaipur. The second is that of astute business man, and in his tale, is perhaps a tale of all of India. Allow me if you will, to tell a little fable of our friend named Kevin.

When Kevin invites people up to his ‘club’ there are no people. Udaipur is not really a party town, although the numbers of westerners turning up is growing. Kevin’s club is formally his lounge, which is part of his three story home, which has in turn been in the family for a very long time. It happens to be in the centre of town. Inside there are a few mats and things on the floor, a disco ball of the type you buy from the two-dollar shop, dim lights with a simple line of read beads lining one of the ceiling pillars, a makeshift fridge, and a really old laptop connected to some speakers that heavily distort if you play the music too loud. The music is rubbish and scattered, but you can find some good old songs. Kevin himself offers beers, flips the lids, has you try some rum, provides food, and also finds time for general chatter.

Now, I’m impressed with Kevin and his operation. There is a nice ambience to the room, and you can relax whilst getting pretty much anything you want, for dirt cheap. Over to the side is a small balcony with two character-laced chairs looking out over the street below. The street below is gentle up-sloping, is narrow, and winds through the narrow, now closed shops below.

I say, “Kevin, there is a lot you can do with this place.”

“Oh yes,” he says, looking on attentively.

“Put a sign out over this railing so people know you are here. Write something on it like ‘cold beer’ or ‘Udaipur’s only nightclub or ‘special lassi’s or something like that.’ Kevin usually just calls for people to come up. Next, arrange the chairs, and mats and things so you can maximise the number of people on the floor, without destroying the ambience of that place. Put a candle here and a candle there. Modernise the music.

In short, I was living out a fantasy by creating my own nightclub, and taking the Kevin’s little place and refashioning it in my image. Now, maybe he’ll do something, and maybe he won’t, but what I do know is that, in time, he’ll upgrade his laptop, get a playlist of the best and latest music, have a place for the fridge rather than just ‘off to the side’, but some non-distorting speakers and put them up in each of the four corners, add more spaces for people, modernise the menu, and add some signs on the railings outside, and hire a few more staff.

The major problem with the sole trader business in India is that there is just far too many people selling identical things (notwithstanding, my tourist zones). I don’t know how many goat leather bag stores I’ve seen, or silk stores, or beer stores, or practically anything else you can think of. But it’s all the same. A lot of the time it is because there is no alternative; and one can probably make a decent enough living out of doing it. A man’s lot is to grow, chose a trade, and ply away at that for the rest of his life.

With Kevin, he offer’s something a little different, something more intangible, and something ideally suited to the tourist in Udaipur. He’s got a long way to go, but the tourists will come, he’ll invest some capital buying some equipment, fixing the place up, hiring a few more staff, advertising, and before you know it, he’ll be the one in Lonely Planet.

As Kevin grows so too does India. Until then, he’ll be calling the streets, looking for lonely wanderers like us, who just aren’t ready to go to bed at 9pm.

Parents, please do not read (featuring Roy the Englishman and the Dog Run)*

Udaipur

We’d been enjoying our days in Udaipur immensely. We spent a good deal of our time lazing around on rooftops, going for walks, eating, and simply viewing the wonderfully serene and peaceful lake in the centre of the city.

 

On one particular day we walked up a huge mountain to a viewing platform that gave panoramic views of the whole city. Naturally, we climbed over walls we weren’t supposed to, and managed to find the single highest point in the whole central city. From there I could see everything. The predominant thought going through my head, aside from the obvious sheer size of the city, was how little our little ‘tourist zone’ was, and how so very sheltered we were. Us, and all the other tourists were literally in a space of say, no more than a square kilometre, whilst the city itself stretched as far as the eye could see in any direction.

 

Fast forward six hours later and I find myself in the ultimate paradox of travel. We’d met Roy the Englishman at our guesthouse, and invited him out to dinner with us that night. He was about forty years old, travelling alone, had long greyish-black hair – and was wearing bright orange Indian garb. He was interesting to talk to – his experiences – and we all enjoyed dinner (there were a couple of German babes their too). Roy the Englishman sounded like an astute businessman, open to the experiences of life...you can interpret that how you like. Afterwards we went back to the Disco King, and this time he had a few more people upstairs, though we stayed on the middle floor, sitting on the floor and overlooking the street.

 

Roy the Englishman and I each had a strong ‘bhang lassi’, which translates to ‘hash lassi.’ After about an hour my face started to heat up, as if I was in a flush, and my thoughts internalised and intensified. The other guys had gone home, so there was me and Roy the Englishmen, high as kites, spacing out in a club of sorts that had been converted from a guy’s room.

 

I thought, this is the ultimate Indian dichotomy. Here we were, lazing around on mats, looking at Indian murals on the walls, listening to buzzy Indian music, and watching the red and yellow glow slowly throb from the ceiling. How bizarre, the quintessential experience, yet we were doing it in the backpacker zone, in a ‘bar’ with westerners and an owner who only ever served to westerners. It was quite a buzzy experience, but also one that was, in a sense, artificial. How big was the city out there? How much didn’t we know?  Whatever way, it was fun, but I couldn’t help but shake that grand view of the city, and that sense of living a phony existence in that city.

 

There’s a side effect to all this. Our guesthouse sat at the top of a big hill, and to reach it you had to feel your way through a labrynth of narrow streets and crooked walkways. We’d got lost numerous times in our first few days, and more often than not ended up inadvertently taking the scenic route as opposed to the most direct route.

 

Matters were complicated further by the nice, gentle dogs by day that transformed into barking mad, rapid, snarling dogs by night. Intensify that by adding a paranoid state bought on by hallucinogenic hash lassi’s, and you’ve got the makings of a disaster.

 

It was just past twelve. The city normally drops dead at eleven, so by midnight there was nothing but a deathly whisper, and the dark, narrow, twisting, winding, elongated alleyways we found ourselves in suddenly caved in, the walls suffocating our breath. Add two barking dogs at each end of the tightest of alleyways, both growling at us fearsomely.

 

“Roy the Englishman, how will we get out of this one?”

 

Someone says, somewhere, or maybe just me, that dogs can sense fear. So logically, if you’re fearful, they will prey on it, whereas if you’re calm, they’ll sense that too and go back to quietly picking through the trash.

 

We did get on, but only just, by puckering up our bottom lips, tightening our fists, moving in a little closer – and yes, by holding our balls up high and pretending not to feel the fear. The growling and barking stopped as soon as the door to the guesthouse closed, and the city belonged to the dogs once more.

 

What a bizarre day, from Roy the Englishman to mad barking dogs. Save me a lassi any day; just get me home before eleven!

* Contains fictional content for dramatic purposes