Sometimes, to see something properly you have to stand a long way away from it.

On the morning of 29 July 2012 I watched the opening ceremony of the London Olympics on the Internet. I watched as soon as I got up, around 7.30am, without my usually reading of the morning’s news over breakfast, to avoid any spoilers since it had gone out live the night before. As a piece of spectacle and theatre I thought it was really fantastic; even though I had problems with bandwidth and the playback was stopping and starting all the way through, like many people I found the whole thing tremendously satisfying and moving, and I felt very pleased and proud of what creative director Danny Boyle had achieved. And, along with a large proportion of the folks back home, immensely relieved that the UK had avoided embarrassing itself while the world was watching.

Since I had been in India for 18 months at that point, reflecting on this led me, inevitably, to think about being British.

What follows is a rather rambling attempt to join the dots of what I was thinking then, and more generally what I’ve been thinking since I arrived in India…

The idea of “Britishness” is something I’ve struggled with for a long time, like many of my countrymen. The first problem being that Britain isn’t a single nation… it comprises England, Scotland and Wales, and each has its own distinct identity, languages and culture—although it’s often said the English struggle to find an identity in the way that the Scots and the Welsh do. I was born in England, and while my passport describes my nationality as “British Citizen”, it also says that my sovereign state is the “United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland”.  So I can choose between being English, British, or “from the UK”.

Meanwhile, back at the Olympics, all the athletes are described as being in “Team GB”, even though those from Northern Ireland are not actually from Great Britain–causing inevitable resentment.

Anyway, lots of things in the Opening Ceremony resonated with me, as they would have with many people back home, starting with the singing of Jerusalem, based on William Blake’s poem And Did Those Feet in Ancient Time. Variously described as an “English Anthem” or a “Socialist Hymn”, it is commonly associated with elite English schools, but it also was the school song at my own high school, even though it was a very ordinary comprehensive in Rochdale, Lancashire. During the Industrial Revolution, in that part of England, and especially around Manchester and its North-West satellite towns—Bury, Oldham, Blackburn, Burnley and others—the rural communities in and around the Pennines grew to become pivotal parts of the global Cotton industry. At school we all used to love singing Jerusalem. Apart from the rousing tune, I think that being in that part of the world we could all strongly relate to “Dark Satanic Mills” set in “England’s Green and Pleasant Land”. (It also includes the line “Chariots of Fire” which has obvious connections to the Olympics.)

Although I’d always assumed that Danny Boyle is Irish, it turns out he was born in Bury, about 7 miles up the road from Rochdale. But there was no doubt in my mind over his intended meanings in the performance of a pastoral, green countryside being ripped up by Brunel’s factories and smoking chimneys.

Danny Boyle is well known here in India as the director of the movie Slumdog Millionaire, and the Indian press avidly reported on his opening ceremony.   Rumours are that he had all kinds of plans for the event that celebrated the South Asian contribution to British culture, including music by his slumdog collaborator and Bollywood soundtrack maestro AR Rahman, but this got cut when he was told to lose 30 minutes from the performance at the last minute.  I hope this lost segment sees the light of day sometime.

As a young lad in Rochdale I enjoyed climbing trees, bird-watching, fishing, and walking on the moors. As I became older I began to realise that the town was actually becoming a bit of a dump… a once-prosperous mill town that, like the rest of the region, had been in decline throughout the 20th century.  The cotton industry had once been a key driving force of the Industrial Revolution itself, even exporting to India.  But the seeds of this decline were later sown by none other than Mahatma Gandhi, when he led a boycott on the import of Lancashire cotton as part of his independence campaign, promoting home-spun Khadi instead.  The connections between Lancashire and India run very deep.

Like its neighbours, Rochdale became a multicultural town, with large waves of immigrants from South Asia arriving during the 1950s and 1960s—ironically, many coming to work in the textile mills. At school I had friends with names like Aftab, Boshra and Krishan, and it never really occurred to me to think about why they were different.  South Asian culture was an integral part of the local landscape.  I can still vividly remember the first time I ate a home-made Samosa.

Unfortunately this part of Britain also became known for racism. The racist, anti-immigration National Front and British Movement became established in the 1970s as immigration grew, and the neo-nazi skinhead-dominated marches they led through Rochdale and nearby towns often ended in violence. Although their contemporary incarnation the BNP seem to have been mostly vanquished in elections in recent times, many of the members seem to be re-grouping behind the so-called English Defence League. These days, Oldham and Burnley have become synonymous with racial tension in England.  And so, sadly, the scapegoating of immigrants and the cycle of violence continues there.

You could probably argue that one of the many forces driving these abhorrent kinds of behaviour is the struggle to express an English or British identity, and certainly the Union flag of the UK, or the English cross of St George, would always be very prevalent on these marches.  (The flag of St George was also used on the crusades, so there’s quite an old precedent for this.)  This meant that when I was growing up, to me these national flags represented violence and intolerance, or at least right-wing politics, and even now I can’t really imagine myself having any use for them.

* * *

The Indian subcontinent itself has similar naming issues to those in the UK.  What was formerly known as British India was partitioned (clumsily, and with disastrous effect) by the British in 1947 into India, West Pakistan and East Pakistan—which itself then went on to have its own war of independence and emerged as Bangladesh in 1971.  Lower Burma was also part of British India for a time as well.

So “South Asian” identity can be equally tricky to talk about. If someone was born in Lahore for example, you would need to know their date of birth.  If it was after 15 August 1947 then they are technically Pakistani, and if it was before that then they were born in British India, under the Raj. So if, say, I talk of Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan‘s music while discussing India, even though he was born in Pakistan in 1948, it’s because he represents 600 years of  the Qawwali music tradition, rather than what was written in his passport.

Even the term “South Asia” is not fully defined.  Apart from Pakistan, India and Bangladesh it often—but not always—is used to include any combination of Sri Lanka, Nepal, Bhutan, Burma and the Maldives. Some organisations also include Tibet and Afghanistan.  There are almost as many variants as there are countries you could include.

So arriving in India to live and work has been problematic for me in some ways. As a British expat, I wonder and I worry about what Indian people will think of me because of where I come from. When a stranger, usually a rickshaw-driver, asks me “Which country, sir?” I usually cringe a bit and then answer “UK” or sometimes “England”.  I often add “Manchester” because everyone has heard of it thanks to Manchester United being a global brand.  I say I cringe because I’m never really sure to what extent Indian people might still resent the British.  Of course, what my forefathers might have done to their forefathers (and vice versa) is outside our control, but resentment can last for generations.

Somehow answering “UK” sits better with me, given that I lived in Scotland for 10 years and consider it my spiritual home in some ways, and many of my friends live there.  (I’ve never really felt homesick very much, but when I have it’s for Scotland!  I’ve never really understood why.  I usually feel like I’m missing people rather than places.)  I also have some French blood, going back to the Huguenots who arrived in East London in the 16th century, working as weavers. And since my paternal grandmother’s name was Griffiths I guess I must probably have Welsh blood too. It has been said that everyone living the UK is either an immigrant, or is descended from immigrants.

Identity is a complex thing, which we actively choose and construct, and which changes over time.  While living in the UK there was never really much need to think about my nationality, although for a time when I was 18-21 or so I thought of myself as “British European” in an Eddie Izzard kind of way, probably because I was backpacking around Europe by train during my summer vacations.  (Eddie Izzard himself being a perfect example of constructed identity on several levels.)

But since I came out to India, I have been more defined by my origins whether I like it or not.  Especially at work, where for the last year I have been the only British person, and the only native speaker of English.  And although the non-teaching staff in the college are all local, the lecturers are from all over the world: currently Mexico, Portugal, Belgium, France, Latvia and the Philippines as well as India. Working with such a mix of people has been really interesting; even the stereotypical “in my country…” conversations are fascinating.  One of the reasons that travel broadens the mind is that you learn that there are so many different ways of seeing the world apart from the ones you were given as you grew up in your homeland.  But when you’re the only one, I guess others will inevitably define you by your nationality, and in a way you feel obliged to live up to that.

So, although I never really had much need to think about my nationality—or my national identity—before, it has somehow risen to the surface while I’ve been in India.  I was quite surprised that the Olympic ceremony made me feel a little bit proud to be British, probably for the first time in my life. The other side of this coin is that coming to India has made me feel slightly uncomfortable about my origins, or at least has driven me to learn more about the atrocities of Britain’s colonial past.

* * *

I wrote most of this post the day after the opening ceremony in July, and have tinkered with it on and off since then. It’s a very complicated issue, and I was never really sure whether I was going to publish this, just let it simmer, or maybe keep it private.  As I often tell my students, one of the reasons for writing is to find out what you think.  And what I think about my identity is still evolving as I spend more time in India.  

But I do feel very comfortable here.  The culture was already familiar to a large extent when I arrived, English is widely-used, the food is wonderful, and the people I’ve met so far have been warm, friendly and charming.   I think the challenge–and the fun–for me now is to keep digging deeper.  

I’m looking forward to Chapter 2.

I’m only just finishing off writing this post in July, but the last bit of holiday I managed to take was our “term break” in the last week of March. I took a short trip away to see another bit of India — this time up to the Northern state of Uttar Pradesh, or U.P. as it’s known.

I got away for a whole 7 days, which is the longest I’ve been off work since arriving here in December 2010. It was a very welcome break, and great to finally travel to one of the most iconic parts of India — the area around the Ganges river.

I started off by flying from Bangalore up to Lucknow, surprisingly about 1800km away and a flight lasting 2hrs 20. When you look at a map of India it’s easy to forget the size of the place!

After an intense final week of term at work and getting exactly 1 hour of sleep before catching a very early flight, I can’t say I really did much in Lucknow the first day, apart from sleep a lot in the hotel and make the most of room service.  But that’s what holidays are for, right?  Next day I flew to Varanasi, about 300km South-East, and which was the main focus of my trip.

Varanasi

Brace yourself. You’re about to enter one of the most blindingly colourful, unrelentingly chaotic and unapologetically indiscreet places on earth. Varanasi takes no prisoners. But if you’re ready for it, this may just turn out to be your favourite stop of all.

— Lonely Planet India

I can’t argue with this. Varanasi — or Benares or Kashi as it’s variously known — is quite a place. One of the seven holy cities of Hinduism, it’s also one of the world’s oldest continuously-inhabited cities, originally founded during the Iron Age and extant as a city since around 1200BC. Hindu pilgrims go there to bathe in the holy Ganga (River Ganges), and dying here is said to offer Moksha, or liberation from the cycle of death, reincarnation and birth.

On the first night there I grabbed an auto-rickshaw from outside my hotel, and headed down to the focus of the city on the West side of the river. The auto driver seemed quite friendly, and helpfully pointed out places of interest on the half-hour journey, like National Highway 7 that cuts right through the ancient city like a scar full of huge lorries (Horn OK Please, very loud horns). So far, Varanasi looked like any other non-metro city I’d been in, with a lot more tricycle rickshaws, and quite a few more goats and buffaloes wandering the streets. Hot, noisy and sweaty, but I’m getting used to this now, and maybe even starting to enjoy it in a way. There’s something about the chaos that can become addictive.

Then the driver suddenly threw our auto into a narrow side-street, paved with stones, and I realised we were now in the old city proper. The tiny, meandering streets surrounded by high-sided buildings were ancient and formidable, and not really meant for motor vehicles. The street was only just wide enough for the auto on its own, and I was hanging on tight as he swerved to avoid children, cattle, on-coming motorbikes and all the usual stuff. (There’s a kind of very sharp swerving manoeuvre that you can do in an auto because it has motorbike handlebars rather than a steering wheel…)

The people dodging our auto began to look more… holy. Young monks, with their hair shaved off except on the very top, hurried from one place to another on seemingly urgent business, while chilled-out Sadhus (holy men) with long beards, piled-up dreadlocks and a multitude of different coloured pastes on their foreheads sat around in doorways with begging bowls, or just sleeping. Many of the buildings appeared to be temples, and incense was burning everywhere. We parked up and the driver told me that the Sadhus were “on strike” in protest at a government plan to damn the Ganges, along with other rivers, as part of a nationwide scheme to improve irrigation. He led me down a tiny alleyway and suddenly there we were, at the side of the river. Ma Ganga, Mother Ganges.

The key feature on the West Bank is the Ghats, literally steps, at the side of the river. Not only places for bathing in the holy Ganga, but pretty much everything else goes on here too… kids playing cricket, herds of cows and buffaloes hanging around, and a proper army of touts. I realised what the Lonely Planet was talking about — Varanasi really does go up to 11. The auto driver offered to wait for me, as they often do, and without really thinking I headed down the steep steps and plunged into the crowds.

I’m certainly more thick-skinned than I was when I first arrived in India, and can now do a pretty decent version of the gesture that means “no thanks”… holding out the hand with fingers pointing upwards, palm pointing at the relevant person, and basically waving slightly. But this place was absolutely relentless. In the vain hope of wandering by the river and soaking up the atmosphere, I was constantly fighting my way through touts and vendors. “Boat trip, sir?” (repeat every 20 seconds.)

There seemed to be lots of lepers too… I always give something to people in a bad way if I can, since there’s no welfare system in India. Giving to beggars here is also supposed to bring good Karma, but I ran out of change almost immediately because there were just so many. I wished I’d known and taken more change… it doesn’t feel good to turn down people who are obviously in great need, guaranteed Karma or not.

Just when I felt like I was getting into the swing of things, a bald old man with a neat grey moustache and Gandhi glasses appeared out of nowhere and grabbed my right wrist with both of his surprisingly powerful hands. It felt just like a move I used to do in Aikido, and I wondered if he was about to try and throw me over his shoulder. Then, as his hands worked their way forcefully up my forearm I asked him what he was doing. “Ayurvedic massage, sir”. Oh, right. Meanwhile a young girl carrying a baby had appeared on my other side, asking for money. At this point, immobilised and surrounded, I thoroughly expected to have my pockets picked, and stood there very tensely — trying to keep some awareness on my valuables (camera left pocket, check; phone right pocket, check) — while this old guy, who wouldn’t be told “no”, gave my arm a right old Ayurvedic seeing-to. Once this free sample was over he let go, and I couldn’t get away quick enough while he was explaining his tariff of various treatments. “Thanks, maybe later…”

Wandering up river I ended up at the Dasaswamedh Ghat, which was getting quite busy with the crowds sitting around waiting for something, and many people going down the steps to the water, to pray, bathe, make offerings, get into one of the many boats, or to light small floral lamps — conveniently being sold by an army of children — which they then put in the water to sail gently away.

As the sun began to set I managed to find a place to sit looking across at the Ghat, which has a small square at the top with market stalls selling flower garlands, incense and various other puja supplies. Surrounded by Indian families, I was suddenly unmolested, and could happily sit people-watching and taking photos. A couple of large, precariously-wired speakers were pumping out distorted but otherwise traditional songs in Hindi, one of which seemed to be about going to Varanasi and doing something important.

Ganga Aarti. Photo by whl.travel @ flickr.

Shortly after sunset five young men dressed in saffron robes appeared, and each knelt next to one of the five low tables that had been set up facing the river. The music on the speakers changed to something being played live by unseen musicians, and everyone began to clap along. Various rituals then went on, involving flames, big incense burners, blowing of conch shells, ringing of many bells etc. and I realised this is what everyone had been waiting to see. Just after sunset every day, the Ganga Aarti is performed — an offering to the sacred river. The whole thing was very lively and joyful — not reverent or serious as you might expect — with lots of clapping and singing along. It was captivating. Watching the aarti, and watching the people to whom this was obviously so significant and important, I lost track of time completely, until I wondered how long it had been since the auto driver had dropped me off. Then I realised I hadn’t even paid him!

Picking my way back down the badly-lit riverside as best I could in the dark, I wondered if he was still waiting, and felt a bit sorry for him. Sure enough, someone in the darkness called by my shoulder — “Sir!”, and there he was. He’d been waiting 2½ hours, but didn’t seem bothered at all. He was keen to pick me up in the morning and bring me back for a boat trip, and since I was planning to do that anyway, I agreed. 5am pick-up from the hotel, then. Accha. Good.

The alarm on my phone wakes me next morning at 4.30am, and sure enough when I look out of the hotel window, the auto driver is pacing back and forth outside in the dark waiting for me.

Driving around before dawn in India feels special somehow. Apart from it being pleasantly cool — around 20°C in this case — you see things you don’t easily see otherwise. Vegetable vendors pushing their hand-carts down the street, from wherever it is they might live (possibly a slum), to wherever it is that they sell their wares (probably the bazaar). A white-capped man and his young white-capped son, walking to a mosque for early prayers. A large group of teenage boys squatting barefoot at the side of the road, fastening newspapers into bundles for delivery while bicycles sleep all around them.

And it’s just peaceful. Although plenty of people are up and about, there’s no motor traffic to speak of, and the constant car-horns haven’t yet started. You can even hear birdsong! Before sun-up is a magical time of day here. The air even tastes clean-ish.

The auto driver takes pretty much the same route as last night, making the same sudden turn into a side-street to gain access to the old part of the city, and we’re by the side of the river again, although now it’s 5.30am and still dark. As expected, the driver introduces me to his friend the boat owner who offers his services, but I decide to head off to do my own thing, so I pay the driver and  this time I remember to tell him not to wait.

There are plenty of people about considering it’s so early, but it’s not as crowded as last night.  As I walk up the river, from Ghat to Ghat, I can hear singing and clapping from inside a temple with people sitting around outside, and I get the impression that they’ve been going all night.  The sun hasn’t come up yet but it’s fairly light now. As I walk past the busier Ghats I ignore the offers of joining boat-loads of tourists and head a bit further up to a quieter place, where I find myself a chilled-out looking boatman who will take me out on my own.

We agree a price, get into his rowing boat, and as if by magic a small boy appears, selling floral lamps which are basically a paper dish with a candle and some flowers in it.  Exercising my now-ruthless haggling skills (mainly because I have almost no change, again) I buy just one, and we set off down the river.

It’s hard to find the words to describe this boat trip. Blissful, at last. Serene. Finally I felt like this is what I had been hoping for, when I knew I was moving to India. A sacred river at dawn, in a 3000 year-old city. The kind of impressive stuff you see on TV, but only really get to experience if you have time to be a tourist, not an ex-pat. The months of living in Bangalore with the stress and the dust and the traffic and noise just fell away. I watched and I listened. Just the lapping of the waves and the dipping of the oars, and the many Ghats and temples slipping slowly by.

Suddenly I’m interrupted from my rapture, and the boatman — whose name is Lalu — points behind me. The sun is just coming up. Perfect. As we sail down-river, I realise that all the buildings are on the West bank of the Ganga, looking East. Saluting the rising sun, and bathed in saffron-coloured light.

We carry on down the river, slowly, but with all the time in the world. It’s hard to tell Lalu’s age, but he has plenty of grey hair and looks like he’s been doing this for years. He’s working hard, but he looks strong. Every now and again he’ll point out something on the river-bank. “Maharaja’s Palace”. “Burning Ghat”. And that’s about it. No hard sell, no trying to rip me off, and I’m very grateful for that.

At one point another rowing boat piled up with tourist tat pulls up alongside. “Souvenir Shop!”, Lalu quips. The Souvenir-Shop Boatman smiles, Lalu smiles, and I smile too. “Thanks, I don’t need”, and I practice my waving gesture that means “No” again. The souvenir shop sails by.

It’s about 7am on a Sunday. Further down-stream, the riverside starts to get quite busy. Hundreds of people gather on the Ghats to bathe in the sacred river, and to pray. Some of them are singing and chanting. It feels very holy, and quite moving. But at the same time it’s very joyful and bursting with colour.

By this point there are quite a few tourists like me in boats, zipping up and down and clicking photos of the religious festivity. I feel a bit uncomfortable as the boat gets really close to some young monks standing up to their chests in the water, with their palms together and eyes closed, praying. I put my camera away, doing my best to respect their privacy (which Lalu doesn’t seem too worried about), and gradually we glide quietly past and leave them to it.

We carry on down the river, and eventually get to a point beyond which there doesn’t seem much to see. I tell the boatman he can turn around now, so he pulls up to the now-sandy riverbank, very close to 2 men wearing saffron robes who are bathing in the shallow water, joined by a couple of young crows. He jumps ashore and takes a dump a few feet away from where the men are performing their holy rituals. It seems that India is always good at bringing you back down to earth just when you start getting any ideas that might be a bit too romantic…

And so finally we head back up the river. Lalu must’ve been rowing for about an hour and a half now, but he doesn’t show any sign of being tired. I am surprised to notice that the muscles in my face are aching, and it dawns on me that I must have been grinning for the entire journey without realising it.

And somehow, knowing that I am happy makes me feel even more happy.

Today is Independence Day in India, celebrating the anniversary of freedom from the British. So here’s the national anthem, sung by the most famous sisters in the country, superstar playback singers Lata Mangeshkar and Asha Bhosle.

The national anthem is quite notable, in that it’s a hymn, rather than jingoistic propaganda about winning wars or oppressing long-time enemies. It was written by Bengali poet and polymath Rabindranath Tagore, and is sung in “heavily Sanskritized” Bengali, which I’m still trying to get my head around as a concept, but it seems it’s understandable by most of India.

As a British person I have mixed feelings about this celebration… obviously I support India’s independence, and I’m very pleased and proud to be living here during such an exciting and significant time for the country.

But I also have to set this against feelings of communal guilt for the atrocious mess that the British made of the transition, which was done in a terrible hurry over only 7 months, and with the benefit of hindsight should have been handled very differently. The botched hand-over led to an unimaginable amount of bloodshed, with estimates ranging from 500,000 to 1 Million lives lost.

The various British-led partitions of the South Asian people have also resulted in a number of wars since 1947, and these are clearly still having a profound effect on world affairs when we look at current events and relations with Pakistan. Meanwhile, more than 60 years later, conflict still continues within India in Jammu and Kashmir and several other regions, due to arguments over the ambiguous drawing of borders, and the insensitive partitioning and relocation of communities.

On topdocumentaryfilms.com you can watch “Partition“, a documentary released in 2007 — the 60th anniversary of Independence — which examines the devastating effect that Britain’s hurried and careless withdrawal (it’s hard to find the right words, really) had on India’s people, and the slaughter — literally — which ensued. It’s a harrowing account, but an important one I think.

And so, on this day, I am happy to salute the people of India, but I must also sadly pause to think of the multitudes who lost their lives, and of my countrymen who have never really been held responsible.