–30–

I am currently in travellers' purgatory.

That is, the awkward period after a tourist has checked out of their hotel, packed up their suitcase and is all ready to go home - but several hours remains until their flight.

With the area around my hotel, where I'm currently waiting, well and truly traversed, and the nearby shops on Brigade Rd holding little appeal, I think it's the perfect time for a retrospective of my seven weeks in India.

I hereby present, in alternating order, five things I can't wait to see the back of and five things I will miss about India:
 
-One underrated aspect about life in New Zealand is being able to walk down the footpath without having to dodge small vehicles. Motorcycles and their ilk tend to stick to the road back home. That's not the case here and, considering the number of near misses, it's a miracle I haven't been run down by an overzealous bikie looking for a shortcut.

-Such behaviour is novel, however, when you're the one in the vehicle. I haven't seen any theme parks in India but I have experienced great thrills going from point A to B in an auto. Taking a tuk-tuk ride around the city is not only an effective and cheap means of transport but also an excellent way to watch India whizz by.

-I just wish I rode wearing ear muffs. If it's difficult to illustrate the chaos of the roads through photos, it's downright impossible to capture the noise. Indians like noise, and the road is one place they indulge in that passion to gratuitous levels. With no forewarning, I just thought my taxi driver from Hyderabad airport was incredibly poor and every other motorist on the road was berating him with their horns. How wrong I was.

-One thing I wish I weren't warned about (damn you, Lonely Planet!) doubled as my favourite Indian custom. I haven't seen so many men walking down the street hand-in-hand or with their arms draped around each other's shoulders since an eye-opening afternoon in Castro, San Francisco. But it's a bit different here - a common expression of non-sexual affection. I want to get this started in New Zealand.

-The illusion India was impressively progressive with regards to homosexuality would have been shattered soon enough, if the censorship on television was anything to go by. Along with the usual profanity, obscenities like 'sucker' and 'boobs' were forbidden, any time of the day or night. Another TV oddity: every scene showing a lit cigarette was accompanied with a warning about smoking being 'injudicious' to health.

-There should have been warning messages on the chicken. Reading: 'Chicken is delicious. Eating will render inferior all other chicken.' It's as if, with beef off the menu, India decided to completely dominate white meat. Along with the expectedly otherworldly curries, there were delights like Murgh Malai Tikka. I'm still not entirely sure what it is but, one thing I am certain of, I'm going to miss it.

-Of course, all that delicious local food does come with consequence. Though my prayers to Ganesha were answered and I escaped without a serious case of Delhi belly, that doesn't mean I escaped entirely. Without going into the gory details, I became quite accustomed to being woken by stomach pain. It would have been worse if I failed to steer clear of tap water. Damn, I miss tap water.

-Especially in this heat. I know I've had a good whine about the temperature previously on these pages, but I'll be looking back fondly on the climate the next time I head to work on a cool spring morning in Auckland. In truth, I could get used to 30-degree days. I just couldn't appreciate that while wearing shoes and socks.

-Perhaps the main thing I'm looking forward to leaving behind is the 'lost in translation' moments that seemingly littered my every day. I can look back and laugh about most of them now but I sure didn't feel like laughing at the time. My favourite: waiting in the lobby of the wrong hotel (in my defence, it had a very similar name) while trying to interview a New Zealand cricketer. I wasted an hour of my time and his. He joked the next day that he thought I must have been dead. Good times.

-But I don't want to seem like I'm blaming anyone for that type of thing because - sweeping generalisation alert - the Indian people are wonderful. The smiling faces, the hand shakes from strangers, the passers-by acting as translators for auto drivers. The people have made this trip special, and I will always remember that.

End of days or: A tour of the Bangalore court system

My time at the Deccan Herald can be summed up suitably by the final day.
 

I was assigned to cover an 'inauguration of the digital library' - I'm still not entirely sure whose library was being inaugurated - and was told to head to court.
    

I may not have managed to get the story, but I got a story.
   

Instructed to get an auto, I scribbled down an address from the brief blurb in a press release and headed out to catch my ride.
   

Now, this seems like it's heading in a familiar direction - one that ends with it becoming 'Kris' auto mishap #42'. But, on this occasion, the auto driver wasn't the problem. Quite the opposite, in fact.
   

But, even with his best efforts, assisted by an able supporting cast, I never made it to that digital library inauguration.
   

First stop was a building which shared its name with one from the release. Seems logical. Only, it looked unlike any court I had ever seen, and I found no inauguration on the third floor, nor anyone who knew a thing about it. After stumbling into an office, one helpful person fruitlessly checked the other floors, then I was on my way.
   

My auto driver had insisted on waiting while I checked - perhaps sensing the fare that would eventually follow - and I decided to simply try the instruction I was given. 
   

The first court we went to was the majestic High Court of Karnataka. Resplendent in rustic red, it made for a good photo opportunity but not the correct location. The security guards, reading what I had written down, seemed to know where I wanted to go and seemed to tell my driver as much. 
   

But what turned out to be the magistrate court was no good, either. There, another helpful gentleman told me to head to the civil court, just down the road. By that point I was running rather late and, in a warren of a third floor, failed to find any new digital libraries.
   

So I headed back to MG Road with my tail between my legs, paid my driver a small fortune and was reminded of the Yiddish proverb, 'Man plans, God laughs'.
   

(A phone, of course, would have come in handy. But my Blackberry, along with a bottle of hand sanitiser, disappeared from my bag in the newsroom one night. My hands have been filthy since.)
   

That adventure, unfortunately, epitomised a portion of my internship. Rogue auto drivers, incorrect email addresses and breakdowns in communication were commonplace.
   

But it's not my intention for it to appear all bad. Nor am I apportioning blame to anyone. I  screw up enough simple stuff on my own in New Zealand to know shit happens.
   

It may have been frustrating at times but that didn't dampen my overall experience.
 

I found it fascinating seeing how journalism worked in another culture, examining the many similarities and the vast differences. And I enjoyed my time on the streets, soaking up the sensory assault.
   

Sometimes I would be walking along MG Road and would almost switch off and become unaware of my surroundings. Then, a dog in its death throes would hobble past favouring a clearly broken leg, snapping me back to the reality of my location.
   

Just like sometimes in the newsroom I could imagine being in a similar space anywhere in the world. Then, I would go to the bathroom and see the gap in the ground where the toilet was normally found.
   

The newsroom itself operated just as others I have been in, which meant I, the intern, was left with a lot of the less glamorous stories. That gave me serious flashbacks to the early weeks at journalism school: wandering around an unfamiliar city searching for stories I cared little about.
   

It also reaffirmed my passion for sports journalism, not that it was ever in wane. In sports, even the smaller stories can hook me. I cannot say the same of general reporting.
   

But, again, I don't want to leave a negative impression. I will look back fondly on my time at the paper, recalling the eager and enthusiastic newsmakers, the easy camaraderie between reporters and the oddly ritualistic tea break.
   

It makes me want to do it again. Though, for my next trip, I would prefer a little less to be lost in translation.

Half-naked fakir

One-hundred-and-forty-three years ago yesterday, Mahatma Gandhi was born.

  

India marked the occasion with a national holiday - Gandhi Jayanti - as the country united to remember its father.

  

With the Deccan Herald, among many other businesses, shut to mark the occasion, I found myself with some free time.

  

I first decided to take a stroll down the road which bears Gandhi's name, to see if I could take in any revelry. But it seemed just like any other normal day in Bangalore. There may have been raucous celebrations elsewhere but I found only citizens relaxing, enjoying the sunshine and, I'm sure, internally reflecting on the influence of Gandhi in their lives.

  

So with no partying, and no presents like on the day of the birth of another famous martyr, I decided to read Gandhi's 12,000-word Wikipedia page.

  

I find few things more fascinating than a good Wikipedia page. Brimming with trivia, it was a great way to enhance my education on Gandhi, which didn't extend far beyond watching the Ben Kingsley film in primary school.

  

With my newfound knowledge overflowing, I now present five interesting facts* I previously did not know about the man whose face adorns every note of Indian currency.

   

(*Legitimacy of facts verified, even though studies have shown Wikipedia is as accurate than Encyclopedia Britannica. The 'Reliability of Wikipedia' Wikipedia page is another decent read.)

1. His moniker has a link to baseball history. Christened Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi when born, he was given the honorific Mahatma in 1914. Meaning 'great soul', Mahatma is a rare title but has also been bestowed upon, among others, Branch Rickey. The deeply-Christian LA Dodgers general manager was renowned for breaking Major League Baseball's colour barrier by signing Jackie Robinson, the first African-American to play MLB. For what it's worth, I have never heard him called Mahatma Rickey.
2. He was married at age 13. The wedding, to a 14-year-old bride named Kasturba, was arranged by their families and didn't have much of an effect on the adolescents. "We didn't know much about marriage," Gandhi said. "For us it meant only wearing new clothes, eating sweets and playing with relatives." The couple had their first child two years later but it survived only a few days.
3. He played a part in two wars. Despite his pre-eminent association with peace, Gandhi commanded a detachment of 20 Indian volunteers, acting as stretcher-bearers for British soldiers, during the Boer War. He then actively recruited Indian combatants for World War I, though he did stipulate he "personally will not kill or injure anybody, friend or foe".
4. His admirers did not extend to Winston Churchill. Churchill, the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom in the years leading up to India's independence, opposed the movement. He was also against Gandhi's peaceful disobedience, with reports indicating the Brit favoured letting Gandhi die if he went on a hunger strike. He famously called Gandhi a 'half-naked fakir', referring to a byword for beggar.
5. He had unusual sleeping arrangements. After vowing to become abstinent in 1906, Gandhi experimented in celibate sexuality, or brahmacharya, in his seventies. Such experiments focused on the elimination of desire in the face of temptation, which involved young women, including his grandniece, sleeping in his bed. Gandhi openly discussed this with his friends and family, but they mostly disagreed and he eventually ceased the practice.

Well, that was a day well spent. I hope you learned as much as I did. I can't wait to do it all again next year.

Exit through the gift shop

With my days in Bangalore rapidly diminishing, I figured it was about time to explore a bit more of the city I've called home for the last four weeks.

After initially being flat out with cricket coverage and then occupied with my work at the paper, I was yet to have a decent look around the place.

MG Road, I now know like the back of my hand, and there have been a couple of other excursions, but no actual exploration of a city big enough to house eight-and-a-half million people.

So that's what I thought I would do this past weekend - my last in India.

And that's what I did - kind of.

I haven't been on too many guided tours but I'm pretty sure it's a bad sign when the first thing the driver says to you is: 'Where do you want to go?'

It seemed my hotel - after assuring me they ran tours of Bangalore - more or less booked a car with a driver for the afternoon. I hadn't done my homework and failed to fashion much of a reply to my driver's query, so off we set on an extended and circuitous drive around Bangalore.
 
My 'guide' did pretty well given his lack of warning and fluency in English. The request was probably the last thing he had in mind when he picked me up, but he managed to take us to a few of the city's hotspots.

I was able to experience the contrast between UB City - a luxury mall boasting stores like Louis Vuitton - and the markets more associated with India - where I'm sure one could also find some supposed Louis Vuitton products.

Not one for shopping, neither location was the highlight of my tour. That accolade was easily claimed by a 20-metre tall god.

Visiting the Hindu temple on Airport Road was an incongruous experience. My driver and I originally joined the back of a queue which stretched some distance and had stalls on either side flogging all manner of religious idols.

But then he apparently found a shortcut and, for just Rs 50 (NZ$1.10), we were shown in through a back entrance.

The commercialism disappeared inside, replaced by a monumental statue of the supreme deity Shiva. The father of the distinctive elephant-headed Ganesha, Shiva is the most powerful god in Hinduism and the statue matched that status.

It's far too late now, but religion may have made a bigger impact on me if, instead of a shaggy-haired carpenter, someone like 20-metre Shiva was the primary subject of devotion in New Zealand. The guy meditates with snakes wrapped around his biceps and a python draped around his neck, all the while holding a trident and looking at total peace. What kid wouldn't want to worship him?

There are plenty in India who do, with more than 80 per cent of the population Hindu. Religion is an important part of the country's culture - with India the birthplace of Hinduism, Buddhism, Jainism and Sikhism - and sites similar to 20-metre Shiva are common.

After snapping a few photos of the big man - an act which felt almost sacrilegious with so many around me praying - we collected our shoes and exited through yet more stalls with eager salesmen.

The tour may not have been exactly what I was expecting but my driver and I had an enjoyable afternoon, and we'll always have 20-metre Shiva.

USA! USA!

It may go against the principle of visiting a country like India, but one of the unexpected pleasures of my trip has been distinctly American.

While curry is well clear as my most consumed food of the last six weeks, another food I have devoured in record numbers is Lay's potato chips.

These heavenly morsels entered into my life when I visited the United States in 2002 and, 10 years later, they have made a welcome return in an unlikely locale.

They may be yet to reach New Zealand, but Lay's are easy to find in Bangalore. With Coca-Cola and Oreo cookies also readily available, I have been able to rely on these most American of staples to fulfil any junk food cravings.

In the fast food category, McDonald's and KFC are, unsurprising, here in force, while I also spotted a Taco Bell on my travels the other day.

And the stars and stripes aren't stopping there. Last week I read about the imminent arrival to India of Walmart, a superstore that has been the bane of small businesses wherever it opens, and that was followed a few days later by a story about plans to open 50 Starbucks cafes in the coming year.

This continuing Americanisation of India has been aided by government regulations permitting foreign retailers to expand their presence in the country. It may be welcomed by expats and tubby tourists like myself, but it was also a factor in the recent nationwide protests.

There is a pervading American influence in the media, too. India may be a member of the Commonwealth, but it is another country once ruled by the British which seems to wield more influence.

Stories about the States are more frequent than those featuring the United Kingdom, with the forthcoming US election earning its fair share of column inches.

Today's paper contained a poll showing an overwhelming majority of Indian-Americans support the re-election of Barack Obama, despite two Indian-American governors harsh in their criticism of the President.

But that story was overshadowed by the primary US-based news of the day - news with far greater implications to Indians than a foreign election.

US software giant Microsoft is proposing a greater cost for visas which allow American companies to temporarily employ foreign workers in special occupations - including the information technology field.

And therein lies the predominant reason for American influence in the country and, especially, in Bangalore. With the two countries among the leaders in the IT industry, they have forged a close relationship as bright minds from both nations live and work in the other.

I, for one, am just glad that close relationship extends to snack foods.

The daily commute

Every afternoon on my way to work I experience an intensive taste of India as I walk along MG Road.

The walk is a slight departure from my daily stroll along Queen Street back home, and it will probably be my abiding memory of Bangalore.

When I open the door to leave my hotel I'm instantly hit with the unmistakable sights, sounds and smells of the city, and they continue unabated until I arrive at the Deccan Herald building 15 minutes later.

During those 15 minutes, a number of sensations wash over me.

The heat is usually first. Though Bangalore is renowned for its temperate climate and locals laugh when they see me sweat, I'm simply unaccustomed to wearing work clothes in 30-degree sunshine.

Last Sunday was Bangalore's hottest September day in a decade, doubling the 16-degree temperatures in which I'd be working in Auckland.
      

That's beach weather. That's the type of weather that sees jeans and shoes and socks consigned to the back of the wardrobe. But, instead, my jandals go unused as I attempt to complete the trek without passing out.

Once the shock of the heat subsides, I begin to negotiate the obstacle course that is MG Rd. While the walk may be a straight stretch for its entirety, the hazards that populate the footpath - or, in places, the lack of footpath - always keep me on my toes.

There are, of course, people. Everywhere. There are motorcycles darting out of every second driveway with no intention of ceding right of way. There are stray dogs in what look like their death throes but, having been too late in seeking a rabies inoculation in New Zealand, I remain vigilant.

Then there are the street-side vendors, with whom I have struck up a pretty good relationship after passing every day. By now, they know I am uninterested in water pistols and sunglasses but I can be lured in with literary fare.

With India's literacy rate rising, these sellers seem to do decent business. And they're not just selling pap - for a local learning to read there are worse places to start than 'To Kill a Mockingbird'.

But with my luggage already overflowing due to a surfeit of books, I have so far resisted the advances of the salesmen.

 

In fact, short of buying a bottle of water to quell the dehydration, I have been a very poor customer during my commute. Even during a rare rainstorm when, like magic, umbrella sellers sprouted in numbers.

I've ignored the numerous food stalls, as alluring as some of the smells can be, and I've somehow resisted several chances to score a map of the sub-continent.

I am tempted to purchase a picture from a clever young man who uses only his toes to paint. But that's less for the artistic value and more as a reward of his talent.

After all, it's a lot more impressive than the guys (plural) on Queen St attempting to wow by standing still.

Which, incidentally, is one thing you seldom see on MG Rd.

Chess club

One of my least-favourite themes in New Zealand sport is the elevation of niche sports when it suits a narrative.

That is, were a New Zealander to become world champion in hopscotch, we would suddenly find a legion of hopscotch experts among the media and the public.

The number of hopscotch fans would instantly flourish and talkback lines would be clogged by armchair hopscotch critics dispensing wisdom they recently read on Wikipedia.

This, of course, is because New Zealand is a small country. We have to worship our world champions because there aren't many of them. If that means pretending a sport is important for a couple of weeks, so be it.

Countries with impressive sporting pedigree, like Australia or the United States, would barely raise an eyebrow if one of their own claimed a world championship in mountain running (we love you, Melissa Moon) because no one cares about mountain running.

But, in New Zealand, we act like we care so we can bask in the glow of being best in the world at something - even if it's something relatively trivial.

Today I discovered clutching on to achievements in minor sports is hardly a phenomenon unique to New Zealand. India, a small country in sporting standards, share Kiwis' enthusiasm for inconsequential sports when one of their citizens is doing well.

(Disclaimer: Chess is not, and will never be, sport. I don't want to be one of those sports Nazis who decree what does and doesn't qualify, but chess doesn't qualify. Simple. For the purposes of this post, chess will be treated as sport for one afternoon only.)

Turns out India, a country with just 26 Olympic medals in history, is home to the five-time world chess champion. And the media want you to know about it.

In today's Deccan Herald, I came across a story unlike any I had ever read: a blow-by-blow account of a chess match.

Viswanathan Anand, the undisputed chess world champion since 2007, is currently competing at the Chess Masters Finals in Sao Paulo, Brazil. He, apparently, utilised some stubborn defence to force a draw with an Italian player in the third round - a summary which doesn't do justice to the story.

The tactics, the technique and the strategy were all broken down in an account which made the match seem momentous. At the end of the 400-word wrap, the individual moves were listed like a cricket scoreboard.

A third-round draw in a tournament below the pinnacle of the sport wouldn't normally warrant that kind of coverage but, because Anand is the world champ in a nation with few, he's given the world champ treatment by the local media.

If he were merely making up the numbers at the tournament, the story would have been a brief at best. If he were American, the story would have failed to register except among chess aficionados.

But because India is starved of sporting success that doesn't involve leather smacking against willow, Anand's progress is eagerly followed.

I can only imagine the zeal in New Zealand if we had a player in a similar position. I remember reading stories of less-noble games like scrabble or monopoly in the media when there was a Kiwi involved, so chess would undoubtedly take on great importance if we were doing well.

I have no problem with a bit of self-congratulating but it needs to remain in context. Not all world championships are created equal and not all world champions need to be lauded to the same degree.

We can still recognise athletes like Melissa Moon, as long as we also recognise sports like mountain running might be a bit fringe for Halberg awards.

If a Kiwi became the world champ in hopscotch, however, we might as well call off the show. The supreme prize would be a formality.