A Jamai Writes

This piece is the first in a three part serial - Fergus Murray writes about his time in Kolkata and his approaching marriage to an Indian woman.


Kolkata: First Impressions.

The December night was London-summer warm, the streets wreathed in a thicker smog than Britain has seen in my lifetime, beautiful halos around the streetlights and roads disappearing into haze. We ignored the perennial throng of coolies and tiny insistent beggar-kids, loaded up the two waiting cars and set off into town. As I left the airport and stepped out into the midnight Kolkata mist the air caught in my throat like dry ice. Whether from the shock of the Indian air, humid and heavy with dust and fumes, or from some noxious airport air-freshener, I soon got my breath and my bearings back.

Several things struck me during that first journey. For one, the buildings were unlike anything I've ever seen in Europe or Canada (the only places I have travelled, to date); more ornate than most and strikingly less flat - most had balconies and even those without seldom have flat facades. Right angles weren't taken for granted the way they are in Europe. Scaffolding was made of stung-together bamboo which enveloped the houses in crazy, curving grids. The buildings were at bizarre angles to the airport road, built later and cutting a swathe through many of the existing developments.

A few other things jumped out - quite literally in the form of stray dogs. We slowed down only slightly for a lazy road-block, manned by police who sat warming themselves round a fire in an old oil-barrel. The cars of the city were largely unfamiliar because they were of makes discontinued in the West decades ago. Most notably, the city's cabs are a fleet of old yellow Ambassadors; splendidly grand cars with no suspension to speak of and ricketty windows. Many walls were daubed with writing - almost all in Bengali - on politics, often accompanied by a hammer and sickle. West Bengal has been a communist state for around two decades even though capitalism has crept forth in a big way these last few years. Another thing which was quite alien to a British visitor was the style of driving. Cars forever honked when approaching other vehicles and at first I took this to be a symptom of aggression. This wasn't the case at all. While in Britain the standard message of a horn is 'get the hell out of my way' a Kolkata horn usually just says 'here I am'. Largely, I suspect, to make up for the lack of wing mirrors on the cars. Most of the larger vehicles were painted in bright colours, often with slogans like 'my India is great', and the prominent, curiously redundant request for the driver behind to blow their horn.

The Welcome

I felt very welcomed upon arriving at my in-laws. My fiancee P and I were greeted by the closest thing her Bengali family had to a matriarch and came in to three tremendous, resounding HWAAAWHs on a conch shell. This was a traditional way to begin a ceremony - in this case the boron-kora. She continued by chanting, anointing my forehead with sandalwood and daubing P's red with sindoor, and waving an arati - ceremonial flame - beneath each of our faces.

This was followed by a midnight feast - rice and dal and rotis and torkari: a Bengali banquet to fill the hole left by British Airways' failure to provide the vegan food I had carefully chosen from their extensive drop-down menu. At home I'm a vegan but most of the things that bother me about Britain's heavily-industrialised dairy industry don't apply here; I would also prefer not to turn down all the amazing non-vegan food in Bengal and I know my stomach can take it. I wouldn't eat eggs but then Indian vegetarians generally don't either. After dinner we removed our shoes and were led into the main bedroom where our mini-puja continued at P's father's mini-shrine. There were photographs and icons of religious significance and over our heads matriarch-auntie recited lines of rapid Sanskrit as we stood with our palms pressed before us.

First Day: Wedding Shopping


In the morning we woke early to the caws of Kolkata's ubiquitous crows, wailing in the streets, and the sound of a neighbour's conch. When we finally got out of bed we had a little time to eat breakfast and take in our surroundings now that the sun was blazing - a beautiful second-floor flat adorned with ornaments from around the world. Their balcony with huge potted plants looked out onto the street; the building opposite our bedroom window had a tree growing around its drainpipe and unfamiliar grey-necked crows hopped everywhere.

Once we'd got our bearings we set out to shop for our wedding outfits. Our's was a relatively small Indian wedding and there were only three days of official celebrations planned. The first day involved mehendi and a sangeet - dancing girls, drinks and around a hundred and twenty guests. The second day, the ceremony itself, involved more singing, dancing, feasting and another three hundred people. The reception was the really big event with about eight hundred to a thousand people invited. On either side of this there were parties of various sizes with friends and relatives and amazing Bengali food. The day after the reception was scheduled for a big, semi-official wind-down before escaping for a three-day honeymoon in Darjeeling.

What this all means was that each of us needed three outfits with varying degrees of grandness. P and I would wear Indian dress throughout - three different sarees for her, two kurtas and a sherwani for me and a dhoti for the ceremony. My brother opted for two kurtas and a tailored suit, much cheaper to get made in Bengal than in Britain. We picked these out surprisingly quickly, they were such gorgeous things to wear, and even P's were all chosen by the next day. P teased me for weeks about the dhoti – a sort of giant nappy for men - but it wasn't nearly as bad as I'd feared.

The Partying Began

Next night's party was thrown by the parents of a guest from the previous night, a delightful and shockingly spry couple in their seventies who I knew only as auntie and uncle. She was a famous beauty in her day; a hit pop song was written for her a few decades back. She cooked amazing food and performed another welcome ceremony largely consisting of me eating rice with uche and sag. Her husband told me about his adventures visiting Antarctica and Africa. His face was lined with eight decades of laughter and storytelling and he ate a different breakfast every day on the principle of choice. This party was in our honour and came in the form of a barbecue in a roof garden with beautiful views out over the city fog. We met many charming Bengalis, a close-knit group of friends of P's parents, and ate far too much delicious food. Barbecued paneer turn out to be so tasty that I vowed to try the same with tofu the next time I got the chance.

The Zoo

One afternoon a couple of days later I headed with my brother to the zoo for perhaps our only chance to see elephants. A man sold us chickpeas at the gate - for the monkeys - but all the animal enclosures had signs saying 'please do not tease or feed wild animals' and the monkeys were kept behind three layers of cage for our protection. Overall the zoo wasn't too badly maintained and apart from the skinniest bunch of bunnies I'd ever seen, the animals didn't seem especially unhappy. Some of the cages were pockmarked and empty as though their inmates had escaped. Others included incongruous cats – there was one in the emu's enclosure waiting for a chance to bring down the bird ten times its size.

Before we left I was stopped by a woman and a small girl with a big grin and a look of wonder on her face. She asked me about my hair and how long it took to grow. Later we were chased by a young boy with a camera who begged us for a photo. We stopped for him and he delighted in showing his friends.

'We were the best exhibits there', my brother said later.

See Fergus' full profile here.

Tortellini Westerner

Who can turn down a freebie? Especially one that saves you having to cook your own tea? When the camp-site I worked with offered up three free tickets to the local tortellini festival we certainly couldn’t say no.

“We’re going to the pasta thing tonight,” I said to Ana the receptionist on the day of the festival.

“No no no,” she responded, “it's tortellini! It's so much more than pasta.”

In all honesty, pasta wasn’t something I regularly ate (being skint and working on a camp-site in Italy) but close to pay day, when customers left some behind on their plate, I was known to take a little taste. So the thought of spending an evening eating free pasta, sorry tortellini, and drinking Bardolino wine was just too tempting. Perk of my job I suppose - going for free when others were paying €20.

The festival was in a town called Vallegio sul Mincio near Verona. I've had the good fortune of living here, close to Lake Garda, for the last four months. It's a place I'd never been before so when Ana directed us to take the blue route I was a little lost. My usual modes of transport were walking or riding my bike while swigging from a travel beer but that night, Fabio the taxi driver took us in. He was something of celebrity amongst my guests; a chivalrous nature, snappily dressed and friendly to a tee. Already our evening was off to an interesting start.

When we arrived at the info point in Vallegio we were handed a bag containing a wine glass and I thought, what a convenient idea. Wear your glass around your neck so you can’t lose it. Genius. On closer inspection the glass was engraved with the Vallegio Sul Mincio crest so after drinking everything they had you were left with a souvenir.

The festival was split into two areas, red and blue, through the town. One token bought four tastes of different tortellinis, all hand made in various family-owned shops. Other tokens were swapped for several wines from the local Bardolino wine region (and boy do they know how to make a good red), Italian pudding and Verona peaches.

In true maverick style we started at booth number four where the lovely Fabio had dropped us off. It was amazing watching the families make and cook the tortellini fresh in front of you. There's a real community spirit to the whole festival. Local scout leaders were there to help clean up, the church provided an organ for a concert and local musicians played as we walked from station to station.

Most of my fellow festival goers were beaten by station five but I was on a mission to get my money’s worth. At each table I was asked if I wanted meat or vegetable and my answer was always meat. If there were extra tastes going for free, I was there. Entire families were manning the stalls and as they handed out samples of cheese, olive oil, honey, preserves and cakes I was blown away by the sheer numbers. The strong Italian family ethic was reinforced when we saw another receptionist from the camp-site helping out at her uncle’s stall and we chatted to dozens of grandmothers and mothers between each snack and wine stop. By the end of the evening the wine was really taking effect and that's when I stumbled across the most delicious discovery.

I had a food revolution. There was a beautiful selection of cakes, icecreams and other tasty sweet treats but it was the chocolate tortellini that caught my attention. I've been a chocoholic since visiting Belgium when I was fourteen and that tortellini was a revelation. The chocolate was perfectly soft with nuts and cream inside. Well worth the €5 for a bag to take home and enjoy with the rose wine conveniently still slung around my neck. Suddenly pasta tasted better than it ever had before but that may have been because it wasn't quite pasta.

After such an experience I've found that I can tell the difference between hand-made tortellini and the cheap supermarket varieties. Both can be tasty with a nice glass of wine, a Bardolino rose if possible, but it's the chocolate version that really drove me crazy.

Written by Karen McGuigan.

See Karen's full profile here.

Homecoming In A Strange Land

I always knew that four months would pass quickly - in the same way I know that even the best birthday party will hold some kind of disappointment. I watched the pages of my diary turn and didn't even wonder where the time was going. I knew that too. It went to Ho Chi Minh and blue/white beaches, chicken noodle soup, scooters without insurance, museums, ancient jars and tubes in rivers, questionable shakes, monks in orange, thirty cent pad thai, trekking and elephants, shark fishing, beach huts, tree top walks, rum parties, ping pong, Muslim dry cleaners and Portuguese settlements and Chinatown. From my first photo in April to the last one in August I have discovered more about the constant state of travel than I ever thought possible and my time on the road was minuscule compared to what others commit themselves to. I've said goodbye to one home and been welcomed by another and passed through many places I could happily settle but the hardest part is just beginning. With my masters at Edinburgh fast approaching and no return to Australia in sight I wonder how I'll adapt to such a normalised routine. People ask me what travelling was like but no one wonders what it was like to stop.

There are a number of discomforts involved with long-term travel, particularly in countries with overwhelming heat. Living out of one bag, wearing the same misshapen clothing, consistently losing belongings and being ripped off by lying travel agents and tour guides – it's a certain kind of person who can stay positive under such circumstances. I wasn't blessed with a great amount of patience and by the third month of backpacking I could feel my fingers slipping from the edge. Perhaps if I hadn't been confined to a very slim daily budget I'd have found more ways to ease the discomfort but I don't think the solution is that simple. Money can only get you so far and no amount of cash will help you sleep better in a mosquito infected room. What got me through was remembering that, as D:Ream says, things can only get better: there would be a day when I wouldn't have to empty my twenty litre backpack to find one pair of socks; it'd be possible that I could wake up in the morning without swimming in my own sweat; when I wanted fresh milk in my tea I wouldn't have to choose between UHT or sickly sweet condensed; and never again would my gender forbid me from adventure.

These desires sound simple enough but the more I think about arriving in Scotland the more I realise that I'm just swapping one unknown for another. I've lived many years in the UK but the last eighteen months of my life has been spent in Asian countries. I've adapted to a way of living that doesn't exist outside Asia and the habits I've formed have to be replaced with old ones long unused. It's like relearning a language once half-known. I've always felt a piece of me has lingered on the shores of Old Blighty - exactly what this piece is eludes me. Memory? Homesickness? Remaining friendships? Am I really only anchored by the physical remnants of my various homes? Perhaps I should split my return to the West into physical and spiritual halves. After all, where in the world I feel connected is more often than not completely separate from where I actually. I would often climb onto the roof of my apartment in Korea, look out over the red and yellow street lights, and miss the huge green of England's air. I've made no secret out of my love for Korea but the spiritual spark just wasn't there. I suppose that's the risk you take when you refuse to accept your life in one place. All those lovely things you lose until you return. Lucky for me my destination has pubs so ridiculously named they could have been chosen by sleep deprived gorillas.

Lara is living in Edinburgh with a sleep deprived gorilla. His name is East.

Welcome to the New and Non-Improved City of London

I just finished reading an article in the Gothenburg Post. The paper is running a 5-page piece on the London riots and the future outlook for today’s kids with a focus on Europe. I have to say, it’s not looking good. Especially since I just moved to London. The article got me thinking about my recent travels around Europe.; it seems I’m blind to the crisis or possibly just suppressed it until now. I’ll start out slow.

This summer I’ve spent a lot of time reading about crisis after crisis going on in the world and it’s never-ending. There are innumerable articles about the world economy’s collapse and why my generation doesn’t stand a chance. Dreams have been replaced by negativity, mistrust and doubt. First, a mad man kills children and teenagers on an island because he is part racist, part suppressor of democracy and equal rights for all. Then Greece hits a new low point and the people lose their pensions, their jobs, and their hope. Later, the markets crash and more people are financially ruined. And finally, the London riots. This last one hits a bit harder as London is home. I have to say I’m not surprised but that doesn’t mean I’m not ashamed.

Polls suggest that the standard of living in London is generally low. I can relate to this considering I live in a flat that costs two times the price of a flat in Sweden (where I was born and raised). It has mould on the walls and is located within a moderately high crime rate area. Pay rates are also among the lowest I’ve ever come upon, yet it’s still worth it. London has a vibe like no other city and I’ve always felt exhilarated by its opportunities but now I’ve got a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. Even though these riots are in part effects of vandals and thieves there is still a very serious message being sent to the rest of the world. Suddenly I see my city in a completely different view.

There's no denying that London (or the entire UK for that matter) is lacking in several important public services, leading to the upset of the people. Student fees are high and taking out massive loans is never an attractive option, especially when there aren’t many jobs to be found. Strangely enough, job opportunity is part of why London was so appealing to me. Sweden is also experiencing one of the worst financial times in the country’s history; the unemployment percentage is higher than ever and it’s hardest on the younger citizens. Both countries are lacking in motivation and hopelessness is a strong and well-known emotion. I should know; the feeling felt very familiar when I returned to Sweden from my study year abroad. I’d just come back from Australia, entirely broke with an extensive student loan hanging over my head, and most of my Swedish work contacts had been slightly neglected. Thanks to a lot of hours spent sending out countless resumes and previous work experience I managed to get a summer job but I still spent two months unemployed and feeling like a failure. And believe me, I got lucky. A lot of people didn’t get work.

My surname is Abgarian. It’s hard to pronounce and even harder to remember. I’ve been judged over the years for my name and I’m fairly sure I’ve missed out on a few job opportunities. I’ve experienced my fair share of prejudices and racism, being seen for where I’m from rather than who I am, but London felt different to me. It inspired me. What’s most beautiful about the city is its diversity. People come to London from all over the world to start a new life and yet there’s still a massive divide. The subject is slightly taboo as people don’t like to admit that they have prejudices. We’re supposed to be open and honest, to respect everyone and their individual cultures. This notion is admirable and something to strive for. It’s “the perfect world” but it's not where we are now.

When I first arrived in London I lived in a lot of different areas. I’ve also spent a lot of time exploring the city and studying the people. People from similar countries and cities live in the same areas and I think it feels familiar and safe to them. I’m not passing judgment as I myself live with two Swedes. I suppose, when home is far away, it’s nice to have people that remind you of it. I believe that everyone should be entitled to upholding their culture but I also think it’s important to embrace or at the very least respect a new country’s culture so that you can be a part of it - at home and united.

The immediate verbal feedback from the riots was people asking who started them rather than why. Now, I’m not blind to racism but I am slightly naïve. I think the people who committed crime during the riots should receive the appropriate punishments for it yet they shouldn't be seen as a whole. They're not a community of people or even a single race. They are people desperate for change and for the community and government to act and help. There may be similarities in race and age, in financial status and behavior, but isn’t grouping them as one just a way of hiding from the problem and refusing to see why these people are so unhappy with the country?

I spend most of my time in Clapham which was one of the hardest hit riot areas. Clapham Junction was ruined and it broke my heart. I know a lot of people in the area, I respect them and their businesses, and during those short but horrific days these people were scared to go outside. I was frightened to return from holiday, expecting that my home, my Clapham, would look horrific. As it turns out people that may have believed in the cause but not the means joined forces and cleaned up. Everyone willing grabbed a broom and got to it. It’s a shame I wasn’t there to experience it; I can imagine that the unity must have felt empowering. Just like that, the city got a bit of its spark back.

The journalists in the Gothenburg Post interviewed young people from all over the continent. I myself spent a few days in Paris and Rome in May and I didn’t notice a crisis at all. I guess they’re not quite there yet or perhaps it’s just not something you see when you’re a visitor. I wonder how long it will be until Europe starts to resemble the war zones in Afghanistan or Africa. Worse still because it isn’t a war with guns, nor starvation or a massacre (excepting Oslo and Utoya) but simply a desertion of hope. A future with no future. London is losing its vibe and I’m just waiting on the rest of the world to follow. Politicians and governments need to open their eyes and the rest of us need to acknowledge our role in the problem. A perfect world is far from what is achievable (at least for now) but there are still things that can be done. New job opportunities need to be created for young people and hope needs to be infused back into the national mind. Apartments and houses need to be restored and the city’s living standard needs severe improvement. The government needs to start listening to the people and what they really want and need. We grow up into a world where we don’t believe we can do what makes us happy but we should go for the safe option. This thought is so depressing. The world is always balancing on a thin line between chaos and stability. It’ll never be perfect, just as no one person is, but it can still be better. A lot better than this.

Written by Allie Abgarian.

See Allie's full profile here.