For decades the people of Dal Lake, its houseboat community and wider Srinagar inhabitants, have been witness to many of their lakes becoming polluted beyond repair. Now, Dal Lake is on the brink of an environmental disaster with huge economic, social, cultural and ecological repercussions that not only threaten the prevailing way of life for the local community, but also foreshadows the demise of natural habitats across India and worldwide.
Copy the link to watch the full Short Documentary
By Connie Bancroft
Whilst sprawled out lazily on a yellow sand lain beach, spooning rich passion fruit into my mouth and taking delight in this strikingly hot afternoon in Vietnam, I find myself reminiscing about my time spent in India. After leaving just under a month ago I have come to realise just how much this truly one-of-a-kind country means to me. It is undeniably true that it turned out very different to what I had expected and this is part of the reason I have been driven to write this article.
Before my departure my work colleagues found much enjoyment in warning me on what I was getting myself into:
‘People will steal your shoes and you’ll have to walk around barefoot in sewage’.
‘You do know people don’t use toilet paper there right? And they just relieve themselves in the middle of the street!’.
‘The dogs will bite you and they all have rabies’.
At the time I laughed along with them, finding the remarks funny and not thinking too much of it. Although a couple these are plausible, and I agree that this country isn’t for everyone, I have an urge to defend India and explain why I fell in love with it almost straight away.
Firstly, I think I need to say that no, not all the dogs have rabies. The average street dog isn’t vicious and all they want and deserve is just a little love and affection – this can sometimes be in the form of a biscuit. After one day of trying to refrain I gave up and made friends with at least one dog a day. Cuddling puppies turned out to be a thoroughly enjoyable activity with no negative side effects.
I was also warned that I would probably be spending half of my time in India on the toilet. I have a ridiculous amount of pills in my backpack which reflect my anxiety on the subject; most of these have gone unused.
To continue on the subject of India’s bad reputation, I would now like to tell you about my encounter with a Dutch fellow my friend and I met in Nha Trang, Vietnam. I sadly can’t remember his name so let’s call him Hank. After meeting Hank at our hostel we decide to go out for a couple of beers. Conversation quickly turns to travel stories, which quickly turns to India. Like everyone else who hears of our trip to India he asks, ‘What was it like?’ Although this time it is clear that the question is only asked out of politeness; it soon becomes apparent he has already made up his mind.
Hank is surprised by our enthusiasm for the country, abruptly stating that he would never step foot there. We calmly ask him why and this is when the atmosphere starts to get a little awkward. He shrugs and says, ‘I’ve heard it’s really dirty’. Well this is sort of a given, it’s India and out of all the negative reviews it gets, this is one that stands true. If experiencing bad hygiene and seeing rubbish on the street makes you so unhappy that it would ruin your trip then I would maybe say don’t go to certain parts of India.
Hank’s next point: ‘Apparently Indian people just want to make money out of you and I know loads of people who have been scammed’. This one is interesting because we were there for three months and not one of us got scammed. There are a couple of reasons I can think of as to why this was so. Firstly, we travelled in a group a majority of the time and I am aware that solo travellers have less support and are more easily targeted. Secondly, and most importantly, we did our research.
Online and in the guide books it tells you what to look out for and we were prepared to stand our ground. I knew before I left that Delhi is a hot-ground for scammers and avoiding them is as difficult as avoiding traffic whilst crossing the Indian roads. We were only in Delhi for thirty minutes for a bus transfer when we had an argument with a tuk-tuk driver trying to charge us double than what we’d agreed to. It is common for scammers to hang around at the train station and target foreign travellers getting off the trains. Tuk-tuk drivers tell you that your hotel is fully booked, has burnt down, has been washed away by a tidal wave etc etc, just to get you to travel further with them to get to their mates guesthouse. We once met a guy who was told the whole of Delhi was on lockdown after arriving at the airport. He bought it and ended up spending hundreds of dollars to be driven out of the city for somewhere to stay.
I am aware you can’t be prepared for everything but I do think a lot of these scams can be avoided if you have a decent amount of awareness. You are also more likely to come across problems if you stick to the big cities and this plays a huge factor in India’s bad reputation. We encountered a couple of people who were pretty much just doing a city tour of India: Mumbai-Jaipur-Delhi-Agra. If you do this, obviously your experience of India will be very different and I would argue that you haven’t experienced the real India at all. Cities can be stressful and the people there are more persistent and eager to make money from you.
“I met a Swedish girl who arrived in Goa and got her drink spiked on her first night’.
Hank’s last point is, for myself, the most frustrating. I have to take a long, deep breath, count to ten, and remind myself to stay calm because I definitely don’t want anyone to think I am being insensitive. Having your drink spiked is horrendous and it is obviously never someone’s own fault when it happens to them. I have friends who have been violated in this way during nights out in England. Unfortunately this happens all over the UK and, being the party capital of India, it also happens all over Goa. The state of Goa is the least conservative place in India; it doesn’t uphold the same values as the rest of the country. Because of this, and the expanding drink and drug culture that often causes problems there, I would feel unsafe walking by myself on the beach at night. Would I use this as a reason not to visit the whole of India? No, I wouldn’t. Hank has a distaste for our opinions that nearly matches his distaste for India. This results in an awkwardly abrupt exit after one beer. Goodbye Hank.
I don’t have the space to list all the reasons I love India, however there is one little phrase which may help explain my deep affection for this country. If you visit you will hear the phrase, ‘Shanti Shanti’ time and time again. In Sanskrit, Shanti means ‘Peace’. Following Hindu traditions, Yogis often chant it three times after meditation to represent peace in body, speech and mind. Locals also say it twice, often to express their nations state of being. Peace seems to manifest itself in many ways. It is there when you choose not to let dissatisfaction possess you, present when you discover twenty minutes means at least an hour in India time, and shines through when a local exclaims with overwhelming optimism , “Why not? Everything’s possible!”.
You will have noticed I have a biased opinion about India due to my trip having been such a success. I did not get scammed or spiked, I only got ill once, and dealing with the dirt became second nature to me. However, my love for India goes far beyond its ability to defy people’s negative expectations. My love stems from its people, their relaxed temperaments and the attitude they have towards life and it’s trials and tribulations. From the gentle hearted Swamiji I practiced meditation with, to the smiley chai vendors we visited in the streets, to the wonderful family who took me under their wing. India is full of inspirational people who will remind you to be thankful and accepting of your life everyday.
By Connor Newson
A few weeks back I fell in love… Yes, this is a love story. However it is not a story between two people, it is a story of a man and his discovery of the marvellous coconut. But like so many love stories there are moments when not everything is as sweet it seems. And for me that sourness came unexpectedly within a matters of days after first being exposed to the greatness of an Indian coconut.
At this point you might be why I’m writing about loving the coconut, or maybe why it has taken a person so long to even try a coconut. After all the world is not so big when they’re readily available in supermarkets all over the world. Nevertheless, love is subjective and these drupes of healthy goodness are usually packaged or served with a delicious and unhealthy layer of chocolate around the outside – yes, I’m referring to the Bounty bar. So of course I’ve tasted the artificial essence of coconut before, but somehow I can’t ever recall eating an actual coconut – especially when its fresh from the tree itself.
The romance began on a warm evening in a small ancient town called Maheshwar hidden within the central Indian state of Madhya Pradesh. Myself and two friends, Ellie and Connie, are taking a gentle stroll down the bank of the Narmada River, admiring the sun as it bounces off the water onto the Ahilyabai Temple that towers above the boats below. As is quite frequent in India, we stop at a street vendor for some tasty chai.
The fire is stoked, a pan is set, and a concoction of cardamom, black tea, ginger, masala, milk, and other spices are thrown inside. As the chai guy works his magic, Connie spots a horde of fury brown coconuts sat on a vendor’s table opposite ours. Already enlightened to the taste of coconuts, she wastes no time in approaching the vendor. Now I’ve only ever seen coconuts being smashed open by desperate shipwreck victims who are stranded on an isolated Island in the middle of the ocean… Hollywood. So I follow Connie, curious as to how she is going to take on this challenge.
Fortunately for her, the trader kindly begins to tear out the thick outer hair to reveal the significantly smaller shell underneath. Moving away from his station and placing a small glass on the ground where he is now crouched, he grabs the nut firmly in one hand and hurtles it at the concrete below. With one fell swoop a large crack appears which allows the liquid centre to spill into the glass. Then, wielding a 500g scale weight, he begins tapping at the shell to break off the pieces one by one, revealing the brilliant white sphere inside.
Immediately I am captivated by the raw method of fending for one’s self. I am caught in the crosshairs of curiosity, eager to taste the pure fruit that has just been revealed to me. But first, a sip of some coconut milk. With the heat of the Indian sun bearing down on me, the water runs down my throat fresher than the streams of Mount Everest. And now for the coconut itself. I take some from Connie and dig my teeth into the crunchy yet soft white chunk. I am hooked, and the initial attraction is obsessive.
We spend the next twenty minutes drinking chai and munching on coconutty goodness whilst watching the sun burst into shades of pink, red, orange, and yellow as it sets over the river ahead. The next morning we return, this time to open the shell ourselves to experience the arduous method first hand (simultaneously attracting a crowd of locals who were probably judging our inefficiency). The taste is as heavenly as the night before. I return once more before leaving for our next destination in India, uncertain on whether Omkareshwar would be as kind in fixing my new addiction. It was… But only temporarily.
Omkareshwar is 65km up the river with a huge temple built into the bank of its river. On our first evening we venture out to have dinner, treating ourselves (daily) to fresh and oily curry. Despite most places street stalls being closed this late in the evening, I manage to spot a friendly bunch of coconuts sitting in a basket outside a store on the way back to our hostel – one for me, and one for Connie. We cradle the precious things back to our rooms and devour them whilst reading our books.
The next day we leave the hostel and go for a walk, little did I know that my walk would soon turn sour. We arrive at what seems to be a market square with about fifteen wooden structures pitched up in a long row. To my surprise, every single one of them has a basket of coconuts waiting to be plucked. I waste no time in my choosing, other than to shake a couple of nuts next to my ear to decide which one sounds bigger – the hairy exterior can be misleading. I make my choice and we continue walking until we find ourselves perched on the edge of an elevated rock by the river, away from any noisy crowds and with a beautiful wide view of the river running for miles into the distance.
As Ellie and Connie begin reading their books, I pull the coconut out from inside my bag and begin tearing out the straw like hair that covers the shell. My eagerness to taste the crunchy interior seems stronger with each one I consume. With the fury coating abandoned, I grip the nut tightly and force it down on to the rock at my feet. However nothing happens. I try once more, yet not even a hairline crack surfaces. I begin hammering down the nut hard against the ground until soon I notice my hand is slightly wet.
Finally there is a crack, but not where I have been hitting it against the rock. Upon closer inspection I notice a small hole at the top of the nut, and two other darkened circles that seem to have an unusual shade of mossy green. However, I continue to bring down the coconut with repetitive and heavy thuds against the rock until eventually it splits. All of a sudden my throat is wrenching at the stench unleashed. Thick white liquid leaks from the crevices as the shell falls apart, exposing a curdled creamy ball of mush that spills into my palm. Full of disgust and gagging at the repulsive smell emitting from my mouldy snack, I open my palm to let pseudo-coconut fall to the depths of the water like Jack from Titanic.
Feeling confused and rejected, I try to speculate on the cause for my mysteriously viscous coconut. Why would a coconut be so bad that its entire interior had managed to curdle? After a while we wander home, on the way passing the wooden shacks where just earlier I excitedly purchased the disappointing fruit. I avert my eyes and continue walking until I arrive at the store where I had bought a nut the evening before. I decide to confront my fears and buy one more coconut and take it back to the hostel, hoping the last was just a one-off.
Back at the hostel I ask for a hammer to assist the dissection. I place it on the floor firmly whilst simultaneously covering my nose with a sleeve. I raise the hammer above my head and prepare to slam it down onto the shell. Suddenly I hear a voice from behind.
“Are you going to eat that?!”, a German girl laughs.
“…Yes” I reply. “Shouldn’t I?”.
She senses my confusion and begins to explain her concern.
“Every day people buy these coconuts, and flowers, to lay in the river as gifts to the source of life that runs through the valley. After the coconut is gifted, locals climb into their boats and fish the coconuts back out of the water in order to sell again. In fact, once a year three-thousand coconuts are released into the river as gifts, and every single one of them is collected and put back into the system. I wouldn’t be surprised if that is a sour coconut”.
So there it is. The answer to my coconut’s deception. I had unwittingly purchased a coconut that had probably been circulating in and out of the river for months. Still, I have faith – or rather hope – that the one I hold in my hand right now is an exception like the one from last night. Before I can talk myself out of it I bring down the weight of the hammer onto the shell. Miraculously, the shell splits almost perfectly allowing the shell to be broken off with ease to reveal the pure white sphere underneath. Tonight I will once again enjoy the tasty snack. And so my love for a coconut persists. At least for tonight anyhow.
By Connor Newson
As we heave ourselves over the barbed wire of a concrete wall the air falls silent. Around us stand maybe ten small, dome-shaped buildings scattered as if at random. Exposed to the elements, partially swallowed by overgrown brush, and rigged with untamed vines that spill from the crevices, it is a wonder how these stone huts retain a certain freshness after decades of negligence. We creep forward slowly, consciously peering around corners before making a second move for fear of being caught. After all, we weren’t supposed to be here – the sign reading “NO ENTRY WITHOUT TICKET” as we climbed the steep Ganga riverbank a few moments ago made that quite obvious.
For now at least, we are alone. So we enter a dome, practically crawling through the small doorway to reveal the decaying interior. Its paint-peeled concrete walls are bare with nothing but individual questionable concrete slabs protruding from the arching wall which act as stairs to the hole above our heads. Somehow the rustic orange and mould-green colours give a pleasurable aesthetic to this forgotten space. However, considering the condition of the entire inside, my apprehension for ascending into the floor above is justified. Nevertheless, my overactive curiosity begs for more as I find myself climbing the freestanding steps one after the other.
From upstairs, daylight floods into the room from yet an even smaller window. A path can be seen outside winding around the tree-covered domes, heading uphill towards larger buildings. Even from a distance it seems that years of untouched tranquillity hasn’t been as kind to those it has to the quaint little structure I stand on now. We push on, following the path uphill until we hear twigs snaps, and then some whispering voices down the hill to our right.
Through the tangling trees we spot two friends glancing forwards and behind whilst helping each other over different wall. It seems we’re not the only ones here anymore. Their wariness of being detected reflects that of ours only minutes ago. But for now, with no one else around, our paranoia has somewhat settled as we move up the hill. That is until we find ourselves walking on a dirt path close to the paying visitors entrance – the one we managed to avert before entering through an alternative route.
Rumour has it that this relatively new entrance fee came into effect after people realised money could be made from the street art hidden somewhere within. The fact that the Beatles came to study transcendental meditation here in 1968 is also a huge attraction. But by principal of street art being art for the people, subversion seems rather justified. Besides, this place has had open access for almost forty years now.
Conscious of preserving our cover we speed up out of view, passing a large roofless bungalow with rickety wooden window frames and sprouting bone-dry grass. Years of mould and moss adds to the post-apocalyptic ambience, yet the sunlight bursting through untamed trees gives the derelict site an element of peace. Further along I see the first signs of modern interference: a signpost. “PAINTING IS PROHIBITED”.
For a fleeting moment my reason for trespassing and not paying seems compromised. Surely this sign suggests the rumours aren’t true, that they’re not trying to capitalise from street art. If they were they definitely wouldn’t use signs to condemn “painting”, right? A couple of steps further and an elaborate painting of a bearded Indian man comes into view, spread across the wall almost directly behind the sign… My moral high ground is restored. Instead of condemning painting – as the sign suggests – an effort is made to preserve this commodity by marginalising other art that might prove tarnishing.
In my periphery I spot another painting on the adjacent wall, probably by the same artist. This time of a faceless, cloaked figure with clasped hands. I begin to approach it when one more appears from behind the tattered window frame of an old house. Soon enough, everywhere I look more paintings reveal themselves. Tucked behind the walls of crumbling buildings and peering through broken windows, it becomes a treasure trail for art lovers and urban explorers. We follow them like breadcrumbs, admiring the transcendent, spiritual nature of each piece until four people sitting outside a large warehouse catch our attention.
We stop for a moment, aware that they, like ourselves, have probably chosen an alternative entrance into the complex. Turning now to the building I see a doorway. The inside is caked with paintings and writing, with a single stencilled piece on the floor that reads: “FIND YOUR OWN WAY”, and an arrow pointing inside.
We unwittingly step into decades of artistic and musical history. Undoubtedly an appropriate place to jam, the large interior is the mother of all shrines to the Beatles. With stencils, lyrics, and huge monochromatic paintings of the famous group and their teachers decorating the walls, it proves to be a gallery of expressive amateur creativity. No doubt people have been breaking into this compound for years and using it as a concrete canvas to satisfy their creative desires. I walk to the door where a tag stands out from the surroundings. It reads, “Please Respect the ART & don’t tag the pointless things. Thanks & Enjoy”.
Once again my conscience can rest knowing that these artists didn’t have the intention of creating a moneymaking gallery for others, rather they advocate painting and enjoyment from sharing their art.
by Jacob Jarvis
“This is the best biryani you will ever have.” “This is the best chai you will ever have.” “This is the best gravy you will ever have.” In Kolkata, it’s clear that the Bengali’s adore their food.
Normally when people boast about something so much, you feel let down when you have it. But every time I took a first bite of any of the region’s signature dishes, all their high praise was proven right. Each first mouthful gave me that warming, comforting, satisfying feeling that only truly exquisite culinary delights can.
Practically on arrival I was handed a plate of naru, a coconut-based sweet, which is crunchy on the outside and softer in the middle. It crumbles then melts in the mouth slowly, filling it with a succulent sugary sensation, with a unique hint of savoury after taste. After this I was taken for my first chai experience, a creamy drink flavoured with a selection of Eastern spices. If you’ve never had the pleasure of sipping on a cup of this warming concoction, imagine the best hot chocolate you’ve ever had – there’s the consistency. Utterly milky and soothing, it caresses your mouth as you sip away. The taste is something altogether different though, it’s incredibly sweet, without being sickly, with a vast array of undertones within it. Cardamon is the main flavour, which leaves a rich taste in your mouth, leaving you longing for cup after cup.
For my first meal I was taken to famous restaurant Arsalan, where I was to try my first authentic Bengal biryani. Back in England I’d eaten this wholesome rice meal before, but found it usually to be dry and unfulfilling. The dish I put in front of me was altogether more appetising. A unique mix of seasonings meant that every spoonful tasted slightly different, which pushed me to go on shovelling the vast portion into my mouth, as I anxiously awaited the next flavour. Here in Kolkata the portions are mammoth, but the quality of the food gives you no option but to finish it – no matter how full you are.
The next day, at lunch time, my Bengali friend’s grandmother made us the biggest lunch I’ve ever had, with mounds of perfectly steamed rice and a variety of vegetarian and meat items. Alongside this in the home-cooked platter of delights there were prawns as big as my fist, delicately cooked fish, so flavoursome it needed only the slightest pinch of salt and pepper for seasoning, paneer with an almost Italian flavour, as it was mixed with tomatoes, peppers, and onions, alongside a selection of curried gravies to pour over my plate.
Each item had its own completely unique taste and texture, though they all seemed to complement each other perfectly. By my third plateful I knew very well I was full, as I said earlier, though, food here doesn’t let you stop eating it that easily.
by Jacob Jarvis
During my first couple of days in Kolkata, everybody looked at me dumbfounded when I said: “no, I’m not staying for Durga Puja.” Their faces would bounce into expressions of abject disbelief, scrunch up with confusion, or even contort into practical disgust. After enough of these reactions, I decided to stay for the festivities.
Puja is a Hindu celebration of the religion’s mother goddess, the ten-armed and three-eyed Durga. It lasts for ten days in total, where families gather together to ‘eat, drink and be merry’, much like how those of us in the West do at Christmas. Bengal is particularly famous for getting into the spirit so, being the capital, Kolkata goes into practical meltdown for the main days of the celebration. Anyone who can take off all ten days does, to make sure they’re free to fully immerse themselves in Puja, and often the Ganges as well.
As people made their last minute preparations, the streets became an absolute blur of traffic, while markets and shops absolutely swarmed with shoppers. If you’re from Britain, imagine the Next sale, but it’s like that everywhere. Police man every street crossing, actually using rope to herd shoppers behind like cattle, before lifting it when they’re allowed to pass. The noise of car horns is incessant, and it amazed me I didn’t see a single crash whilst I was there.
The crowds, however, are much more inviting than you might imagine. With the sparkling lights and the smell of street food and chai intoxicating everyone’s nostrils, it’s hard not to be swept up into high spirits. The Hindu religion is one which teaches compassion and at its core is the belief in treating people well. Everywhere I went I felt welcomed.
All over the city, every area has its own Pandal, a temporarily constructed temple of sorts, each vibrantly and distinctly decorated, all seemingly in competition with one another to be the best. These host statues of the idols, with the goddess Durga taking prime position in the centre. These incredible structures take months to plan, design, and build, then are open for just four days, before being deconstructed. In each the artwork is distinct, with each year a new theme being used by each, unlike the old nativity scenes and beat up trees dragged out annually in Britain.
This combination of modern art work and worship is something I’ve never witnessed before, and, at least on this scale, seems distinctly unique to Kolkata. Whether a devote Hindu, a die-hard agnostic, or whatever else, the temporary masterpieces which are created are unbelievably impressive to see. The knowledge that they are purely temporary makes them all the more special too. Unlike anything placed in a gallery or reprinted to be put on the walls of millions of people across the globe, you know only a select number of people can see these. The dedication of the artists to something which is ultimately fleeting and ephemeral makes you feel truly lucky to see it.
At night, groups of all ages go ‘Pandal hopping’ until the early hours of the morning, and you’ll find people at the largest ones 24-hours-a-day. Ceremonial drums are played intermittently, timed to welcome the gods each morning and to thank them each evening. This sound of steel percussion encapsulates the fever of Puja, and players are even inclined to jump into the crowds to whip up a frenzy of dancing from the revellers. I spent from 6:00pm to 6:00am hopping around on the first night, and saw but a tiny selection of what was on offer. Then over the coming days I visited many more but still couldn’t even make a dent in the total number.
For any fan of partying, the intoxicating vibe of being surrounded by people, and general good times, Durga Puja is a must visit spectacle at least once in a life time. Added to this, any lover of art and culture will also relish the sights around the city. The lights, the paintings and the sculptures are all mesmerising in their own ways.
Now I’ve been once, I’m sure I will again. I can see why the locals practically insisted I stayed, as I’d insist that anyone who heads to India while Durga Puja is happening goes to Kolkata. Because if you miss a Puja, there’ll never be another one quite like it again.
by Jacob Jarvis
India can be a daunting place for foreigners – it’s chaotic and busy and incredibly different from anywhere else in the world. So the friendly and welcoming culture of Kolkata, formerly known as Calcutta, was immensely appreciated when I visited the cultural capital.
In ‘Cal’, as the younger locals call it, it seems everybody is a little more relaxed. The traffic, though still intense, appears to run more smoothly. The workers, though still busy, aren’t running at full speed constantly. The culture, though still as rich and impressive as any other Indian city, is less daunting than elsewhere. In Kolkata, everyone can fit in, regardless of background. Even tourists like myself can blend into the crowds, if we try hard enough.
Arriving at my friend’s grandparents’ home, where I would stay throughout my trip, I was welcomed so warmly I felt like I might never want to leave. Straight away the family embraced me as a temporary member, and began imparting their knowledge of the cultural highlights of the city on me, highlighting everywhere I should visit.
It seems unanimous of everyone here in Kolkata that they are immensely proud of the city they are from. From the architecture, to the food, to famous icons such as Mother Theresa and Nobel laureate Rabindranath Tagore, you can see there’s plenty which can be bragged about. And as an avid reader, I was flabbergasted I hadn’t heard of this literary hero from the city. Hundreds of poems, short stories galore, mammoth novels, even national anthems – he did it all. And the people you meet will be happy to brag about it, probably because the rest of the world doesn’t bother to.
Wherever we stop along the winding streets of Kolkata we’re met with friendly greetings in Bengali dialect. Everyone seems to speak to each other as friends, regardless of how little they happen to know each other. On the street, in shops, or at cafes, people pick up conversation freely – a skill which has been lost in so many places across the globe.
Wandering along Park Street, if the weather were cooler, you could mistake it for London. The architecture practically yells, “Rule Britannia!” in your face, and the quaint restaurants and cafes have a distinctly English feel. For anyone who’s experience ‘Delhi belly’, these eating options will provide you some relief, with simple and familiar meals all readily available.
If you’re reading this and you’re planning a visit to India, make sure Kolkata is on your itinerary. If you live in the country and have never visited, hop on a train. And finally, if you’re from the city, thanks for being so friendly.
WORLD AWAY 