-- Approaching the "Dunmore House" slums, near Nellurahalli --
Training Run (11.5 Miles) - 08/02/09
Palm Meadows W. trail - Dunmore house route - through EPIP
area - to 2nd road - Down Seetharampalya - By Whitefield lake -
Basavana Nagar - to Whitefield rd : 0:46:27
Back to 2nd road - ITPL main road - Left through small
neighbourhood - around Kundalahalli lake - lost in the tech park
areas - Find my way to Sai Baba hospital - Back through the
Dunmore House trail: 0:58:27
Time: 1:44:54
Pace: 9'00" / mile
Mileage: 12.4 Miles
Wght: 153
An urban run. I've decided to not run long today, and therefore
am not carrying food or water. The weather is in its usual
overcast windy state, as if it were going to rain, but rain will
not come. (We've finally had a few brief monsoon downpours, but
not enough to satisfy the needs for water and electricity. I hear
that most parts of the city continue to have at least 2 hour
mandatory power cuts, 6 hours in some places).
What I call the "Dumnore House" route is actually one of
my many daily run-commute ways to work, the most recently explored,
and only gets its name from of a conspicuous red sign at
its entrance.
It connects the Siddhapura - Nellurahalli road to the
sai Baba area, by a dirt trail that passes through a vast
barren field, where a few corrugated metal house communities
live. The trail passes right along such small slums,
right through one of them actually, through a narrow
opening leading to the larger Nellurahalli dirt trail,
where so much activity is found. The latest addition to this
commute is what I call the Western trail, one that from the
main road flanks the West Side of Palm Meadows, until it
diverges to meet the Siddhapura road, right by where the
"Dunmore House" route starts. Running in the morning on
Siddhapura road, I had always wondered where that Dunmore
House sign would lead to,
and whether it would provide a suitable commute alternative,
until I eventually explored it on the bike, and was pleased to
find the passage. I then cautiously explored it running,
unsure whether packs of dogs roaming there
might present a problem, not to
mention entering so far into the slum communities. I remember
feeling a small sense of triumph the first time I did this,
another breakthrough of sorts. Now the route is becoming
increasingly common as I run it at least once a week, and
I'm gradually able to establish some timid relationship
with the slum dwellers.
Yesterday, Saturday, I ran it to work, in the early
afternoon. As I ran past some of the shacks, two kids
approached me, "Uncle, Uncle". We shook hands,
spoke out our names,
and they ran with me a few yards, soon joined by a bigger
group of about 8 children. I tried to explain to them where
I was going, "work, ITPL", as I pointed to the grey
buildings in the distance. The ground was muddy from
the recent rains, so one kid slipped and fell, and we
all stopped to make sure he was all right, but he acted
brave. The kids soon stopped following me as we left
the shacks area, and I wondered whether it would be wrong
for them to leave their territory and venture near the
next community. A little further, where the trail
narrowly passes through the dwellings,
a woman sitting at the entrance of a shack nicely
waved at me with a smile, beautiful in her draped saree
in spite of the poverty. I wish I'd carried my camera through
all this, and resolved
to come back the next day.
I returned on Sunday morning, instead of venturing out
into the villages. But to my disappointment, the area was
quiet, and I just ran through without much fuss.
Wanting to visit the deeper urban communities, I returned
to an area that I had explored some time ago, a small street
that passes by Whitefield Lake and connects to the main
ITPL road. This throws me straight into the community,
at this hour a bustling crowd, poor but vibrant with
such activity, chaotic commerce, people washing outside,
women crouched over cleaning dishes or laundry, or
carefully drawing with chalk intricate rangollis on
the ground, motorbikes overloaded with children, and in
spite of the poverty, such a beautiful display of fabrics
and colors. Most dogs don't take notice of me, until
two of them follow me growling. I'm able to stand them
off, helped in that by a man who yells them off, threatening
to hit them. "Thik hai, Thik hai", I tell him,
thinking that I have the situation under control, to
which he responds "Ok ok, running running...",
sending me off in peace with
a circular wave of the hand and a side to side headshake.
Sometimes, I hear men commenting on me, making jokes in
their singing Kannada which I cannot understand, all
in good humor.
Back on the main road, I pass RxDx towards Brookfields
with the goal of traversing some other similar community that
I had once found on the bike. There is also a very small
street, which eventually leads to a tent slum right by
Kundulahalli lake (according to Google), which is circled
by a dirt trail. /* Families are washing laundry on the banks
of this filthy lake. */ Along there, a small girl is trying
to reach a branch from a tree, jumping as high she can,
and I offer to help her, but she moans in fright at my
sight and runs away towards the lake bank where a family
is washing laundry in the filthy waters, as I try to appear
as little threatening as possible. A dirt hill leads me
back into the tech parks area. Many of these complexes
are still being built. I soon get lost in these wide
nondescript streets, which are mostly empty on a Sunday
morning, and am also starting to tire, as I have stupidly
brought neither food nor water. I eventually ask the way
to Nellurahalli to some security guard who obliges, and
I'm relieved to finally find myself right by Sai Baba
hospital. Having bought a Sprite from a roadside vendor,
I resume the way back home.
The Dunmore house slums are more alive than earlier.
An old man on a decripit bicycle is selling some fruits
by one of the clusters of shacks.
He's talking to two small girls who are visibly
very poor, their cute dresses dirty and their long hair
unkempt. They nicely wave at me as I pass, and I ask
whether the kids have enough to buy what they need, but
either because he doesn't quite understand, or because
it's not needed, the man gently waves me away, with
another circular hand motion. From the next group of
shacks come a few young boys, running alongside me
as we all shake hands, "Leep, leep", they call me,
almost remembering my name from yesterday. I correct them,
but as prononciation proves challenging, I simplify
my name to "Pilip", to everyone's satisfaction.
They also each declare their name,
but unlike them I know that
I won't be able to remember their intricate sounds.
We pause near their shacks, where a man, kneeled down
by the local water container beamingly smiles at me.
I feel the camera which I've been carrying all day in
my pocket, but decide to not take it out, out of respect
for these people, not wanting to make it feel like I
came here as one would visit a zoo. A strange animal
sound is heard. I ask the children about it,
but it turns out to be the bicycle fruit
seller who is approaching blowing his horn, to the signal
of which the kids all say goodbye to run by him. I leave
also,
determined to come back, as new plans form in my mind.
-- Pooja in Aurohalli --
Training Run "Pooja in Aurohalli" (11.5 Miles) - 08/09/09
Palm Meadows - through Varthur - Main road to Gunjur: 0:32:47
Rural road to the right - through two villages -
small dirt trail - back on a paved road: 0:33:43
Continue straight - Hanuman Temple - Straight then left,
to Muthsandra 0:27:18
Muthsandra to Aurohalli: 0:12:58
Time: 1:46:49
Mileage: 11.9 Miles
[Under construction, check back for updates]
What started as a
started tired, slightly sick
haven't been through Gunjur in a long time
running on the main road, through the chaotic Varthur market,
then the road becomes more rural, but still heavy with traffic.
I remember how earlier this is where I ran, hesitant to venture
off on the smaller country roads and trails. How much has changed
in these ten months.
The road to the left in Gunjur is as beautiful as I remembered it,
mostly paved, but virtually empty, except for the few small villages.
Surpringly sunny. and because I've been traveling with the wind
thus far, a bit too hot. Fortunately I decided to take all four
water bottles at the last minute. I see promising dirt trails
on both sides of the road, which I plan to explore in the future,
but today stick to my plan, which is to do a fairly large loop
all the way to Aurohalli, which I'd like to visit again before
my trip to the States, to keep my relationship with the villagers
alive. worried that too long an absence might set my relationship
with the villagers back. The road takes me through two small
villages, same warm reception, after which I take a left turn
into a dirt trail. Here traverses more intimate parts of the
village, where I sometimes wonder if a white man has ever gone
to, before reconnecting to a familiar road. I have made regular
walk breaks, feeling dizzy, tired and somewhat sick, careful
to drink regularly. Running on the road isn't as interesting
as the trails, mostly because the way is in full view, there
isn't as much variety, unknown, as on the small trails. As usual
I introduce myself to some of the more curious villagers. Guys
in a car stop to offer me a lift (although the car is already
overfilled with people), but I indicate that I'm fine. To a villager
I ask my way towards Aurohalli, and he carefully repeats a few times,
Straight, Kadegodi, Muthsandra, Aurohalli... Somewhat to my
surprise, I reach the small Hanuman temple at the crossroads,
which I've come to a few times, which starts to give me a better
idea of how this all connects together.
On this final stretch, I see a beautiful young woman washing
clothes on the side of an artificial pond. The image is splendid
and I stop. She thinks I'm asking for directions and says "right,
right" (without even knowing where I'm going), but when I produce
my camera to ask here, she quickly refuses,
A little later, I catch up with a young man walking on the side
of the road. He seems eager to speak to me so I stop to introduce
myself. I explain my destination to which he replies, "come,
I'll walk you to Aurohalli", but I need to keep running, especially
since it's getting late, and the family will be waiting for me
at home. He decides to run along with me, barefeet, carrying a big
plastic bag, which he explains is full of food for his father.
I offer to help carry it (and notice that it's quite heavy), but
he protests. Asked whether he's fine, he replies that he's used
to exercise. As we're getting closer: "come, I'll show you my field".
I can't pass on this opportunity and follow the young man through
the cultures. He takes beans off a plant and offers it to me,
then apparently worried that I might just swallow the whole
thing, opens it for me. "We are not as rich as you", he observes
simply, with no intention of mendicity. We walk for a short while,
past a palm hut, and reach a little drainage pool where a man,
his father, is working. We exchange names, the man takes off
his turban as I take his photo. I offer one of the cereal bars
that I was carrying as a meagre appreciation gift, which they
eye suspiciously.
Back on the road, another boy runs to me to offer me a tomato.
I gladly eat it, happy to taste its juice. As we approach the
village, I hear the beat of music and ask my companion about it,
but it sounds more like some construction work is happening.
In the village center, a few familiar kids quickly come
to greet me. This time the sound of drums cannot be mistaken.
"Pooja?", I ask, and the kids offer to take where the celebration
is happening. I am escorted by my usual buoyant guard (but no
sign of Anjun Kumar) to the lower part of the village, where
two chariots carrying idols draped in flowers are stopped,
surrounded by a band of village musicians.
Circle. I am in the middle. Flowers. Garlands. Flowers
are thrown. Colored powder.
Red powder. Petals.
I am engaged to dance by a man. I play the game. Pushed
in the cirle of musicians. Meanwhile I've given my camera
to the kids, who are running around taking pictures.
Don't give the camera to the kids, adults recommend, they could
drop and break it.
Tikka.
Sindhu.
Pooja. People in front of their houses, ready with their
plates containing coconuts to offer the gods. We slowly proceed
up the village.
I am handed over a drum, saddled around my shoulder.
I don't know how to play of course, but manage to follow
their rhythm. That way we slowly make our way to the village
center.
Comprised of drums and two clarinet like wind instruments
producing a nasal sound.
Cannot hear the villagers well, amongst the deafening sound
of the drums (not sure if I would quite understand their
English anyway). My little friends make me sit on a short
wall by the school, while the chariots are slowly making
their way through the village, receiving prasad from the
villages.
Call Cecile for them to join me in the village. Xavier
should know the way.
We slowly make our way up the village, stopping at each
house for the people to make their offerings.
As we go through the center of the village, Anjun comes.
Our reunion. Something cinematographic.
"Did they give you the pictures when I came?" I ask. Only one,
he replies, but the conversation is made difficult by the
clamor of the drums.
We head out now towards the road, in direction of the Shiv
temple. But soon make a U-turn where the houses stop. There too,
we dance, and I am invited back into the circle.
The two dancers. Strange bird like moves. This man looks
slightly drunk. Another joins and is more frenetic, inventive,
instead of sticking to the bird moves. They imitate my steps
and we have fun. The kids join in too once again, and we find
new moves to all dance in unison. The young guy carries my
up, then picks up the birdman as well. carries him. Birdman gets
reprimanded out of the circle a few times. The flutist
tries to escort him out of the circle by attracting him
into the forest, miming as if he were some animal. The birdman
gets reprimanded a few times, but often manages to work his
way back into the circle.
A man carrying a tin pot of a preparation of Garbanzo
beans. Feeding those who participate in the Pooja. Little
paper plates. I am happy to eat, as I feel increasing weakness.
The kids are getting impatient. Anjun, and several other kids
as well, invite me to leave the Pooja and go visit their house,
but I can feel that the villagers expect me to stay.
I point to the Bhagvan, and also indicate that my family should
be arriving. The kids then
make me sit on a short wall, next to the village school, while
the chariots have stopped once again, waiting for the offerings.
I explain that I'd like to give money (I've carefully pulled
40 Rs out of the plastic pouch that I carry in my pocket), and
I finally get to offer it. I am again fed the mixture of
beans, this time in a tiny paper plate. Feeling weak, I've opened
the second bar that I was carrying, offer a little to bit to
the kids, but the villagers discourage it, and I eat half of
it alone.
-- Anjun Kumar --
We head back towards the center. Anjun has grabbed my hand
and will hold it the whole way, as if I was his father.
Village water, at the main source.
Anjun helps me fill my four water bottles. I drink
wholeheartedly with no hesitation whatsoever. Gone are the days
where I would fear the water, as I've slowly trained myself
to drink the local water. I feel a just retribution to that
day where I had refused water in the Cauvery Nagar slum,
knowing that offering water is such an important gesture.
It's a great gesture that I am now able to accept it.
A little higher in the village, where I had once
photographed this little girl in her shop, the procession
stops once again, and I am invited to dance again, while
a bigger crowd has gathered.
Rhythm. Exhaustion. Several times they pick it up.
I am fueled by the villagers to engage with the musicians.
Several times we pick up the rhythm, dancing to a frenetic
pace, but I fear exhaustion, having run next to two hours,
and worried that I could pass out in this heat. But the
music is relentless, and new companions joins me. Finally
I catch the car that has arrived out of the corner of my
eye (it has been about an hour) and they find me dancing
in the circle of villagers.
They push the locals out of the circle, making room for us
to dance. I have to engage each drummer, to an increasingly
frenetic rhythm.
Xavier asks his way around, has managed to reach the village.
When they arrive, I am near the central place, surrounded
by a circle of villagers and the musicians, dancing like
a madman. I hand over the phone to Anjun so he can repeat
the name "Haurohalli, Haurohalli", he yells a few times.
I see them being also handed
flower garlands, applied the tikka, and invited to join
the celebration. The dances continue for some time.
I trust Anjun only with the camera. He helps
me put it back in my back pocket, delicately.
Later I take off my belt, let Another boy carry it.
But an older man insists on giving it back to me,
in spite of both our protests. We both shake our heads
at this adamant man.
Children and rogue dancers are disciplined to not get the way,
often slapped, in spite of our reassurance that this is all fine.
The color
has dripped over my face with sweat. A man delicately
cleans it off my nose.
Then 3 of the drummers proceed with their own dance.
Drummers dance, then a game where a 10RS bill has been
placed on the ground held by a small dirt mound, the drummers
bend down to grab it with their eyelids. The last contestant
(the energetic dancing guy from earlier) has a hard time,
spends too long, and is finally interrupted, as it doesn't
feel like he's going to succeed. His tikka has spilled over
his face, looking like blood.
(photos 4, 5, 6 & 7 by Flora Champenois)
(photos by Flora Champenois)
We finally leave the village center and
After this, through a small street, a part of the village
I had not seen before.
The village, in spite of its modest size, has three or
four temples.
Anjun has grabbed my hand again through the village.
As we walk: "They are saying that your dancing is accha-
accha, he says, using a little Hindi probably to please me.
Ask what bring back from the States. Bicycle? ...? Stop.
What was I naively thinking? That they would be content
with some useless piece of junk?
A young man comes to me: 25 - 23 - 25? He argues with
another. I don't understand what the man is saying.
Is he scoring my dancing? Or arguing over the date of
the upcoming Ganesha festival?
The men download the idols from the chariots,
carry the gods into the temple.
A stone is placed on the ground. One of the leaders
holds a watermelon which holds a flame high over his head,
then throws it on the rock. The kids rush at the broken
watermelon, collecting coins that had been placed inside.
The fruit pulp looks like blood.
(last 3 photos by Flora Champenois)
-- Anjun Kumar's street -- (Flora Champenois)
We are finally free to go to Anjun's house. These
are other small alleys that I hadn't explored.
Inside the house. Three rooms it seems (although we're not
let into the last room which must be the kitchen). Dark,
small. Packed. We are made to sit. Seems as the whole village
has come here to greet us.
I recognize so many familiar faces in those children,
men, women of Aurohalli.
The little who had such an amazing smile. Now I notice
that the skin of her face appears sligthly burnt. She's
strangely silent, serious, changed. No longer smiles.
Xavier has followed us into that street. I introduce
him to Anjun as "my friend".
Bhagvan Ganesh. Anjun explains where they will keep
theirs, nearby their house, a place now occupied
by a pile of hay, that they will clean up.
Xavier explains to Anjun that prior to dancing
I had been running for nearly two hours, as if Anjun
needed a translation.
In front of his house, I remove my shoes.
Anjun makes me wash my feet (there
is a public tap right there). I fill again my bottles, happy
to drink more, somewhat dehydrated. I then remove my water
belt and leave it by my shoes. I come back to take my camera.
"Keep your camera in your pocket," Anjun advises, "kids will
take it and run".
They offer food. Seeing that some of us cannot drink the
water, someone has rushed to buy a sprite, which they serve
us in tin cups.
Telugu in the village. Grandma speaks Telugu only, Anjun
explains, to my surprise. LAter find out that this whole
community must have come from Andra Pradesh and founded
the village. Anjun was born here however.
Inside the house,
They ask us to remove our flower garlands, "they will
not look good", they explain.
TV inside the house.
They make us sit.
Ruppa. Her serious face. Sad. Their is something stern, hard
about her. Her hospitality is aggressive. Invites us. You must
come. I recognize her. But she scolds me, "why didn't you
come to talk to me, if you recognized me?". Come back
on Saturday, I promise. Not Sunday as I will be traveling.
I explain several times my trip to the US. I ask Anjun
and his friends whether they would want something from there.
SHe insists that we eat her food as well. We hesitate wondering
if we'll end up being here the whole day. She runs out and
comes back with a plate of salty chip-type things.
Dance moves, grandmother asks.
Grandma asks several times to see us dance, since she missed
all the agitation. Where is the father? Meet Anjun's 2 older
brothers.
House is packed. Even a woman outside peering through
a broken glass window.
-- Inside Anjun's house --
In front of his house, about to leave.
Xavier insists on pulling out a white plastic chair in
the middle of the alley, so I can put my shoes back on.
Before we leave, Jeremie makes a demonstration of Bharat
Natyam in the street.
Other children also implore us to visit their house. Next time...
Xavier, to my surprise, speaks Telugu also, knows south
indian languages (Kannada, Tamil, Telugu, Malayalam) in
addition to Hindi and of course English.
Kids come in the car. Two people would like a ride to
Whitefield, but our car is full.
-- Monika --
Commute runs to work "Dunmore house" - Week of 08/10/09
Dunmore House - Direct route through Nellurahalli
Time: 0:32:37
Mileage: 3.6 Miles
Wght: 154.5
Meanwhile, during the week, I was also making progress in the slums:
A late start, around 7:40. No 7am meetings at last!
On the Palm Meadows W. trail, a significant pack of dogs, but
let me by oblivious. A few passers by, polite greetings.
Decide for Dumnore house route, eager to see if I'll meet
anyone. Today I'm carrying a camera in my pocket. To my
great surprise, another runner in front of me, a tall
bulky indian guy from what I can tell from a distance,
but he veers to the left instead of going towards the slums.
Approaching the slums, I meet two boys in blue school uniforms
and stop for them. We shake hands. They explain the name of
their school, in Nellurahalli. I say my name, and showing the
tall ITPL buildings in the distance explain as clearly as I can
that I too am going to work. Are these the
same kids that I've met before? I politely ask to take their
pictures, and promise to bring them back.
We are joined by two girls each wearing a dress, then by
a younger boy completely naked. The other children point
at him amused as he runs to us. I ask everyone
their names, but they're so long and complicated that I am
unable to retain them (frustrating), with the exception of
one of the girls whose name is Lakshmi. Perhaps I can bring
a paper and a pen to write the names down next time? I confirm
with the boy that they are indeed living here. Finally,
authoritatively concluding the exchange,
the boy who has done most of the speaking says "bye uncle",
and the girls run back towards the shacks.
The pyramid-like temple at the junction is again loud
with music, but this
time no threatening pack of dogs. But here I decide to try
something new, and instead of turning left towards Sai Baba,
I take to the right, right back into the center of Nellurahalli,
from where I the direct road leads me to the side entrance
of ITPL. Even though this is the shortest possible way, I had
been avoiding this road after having taken it a couple times
early on, intimidated by the slums it goes through, by the many
dogs.
But how much has changed! What extraordinary progress
in the last few
months. This latest route actually proves to be one of the
most exciting ways to commute, rich with life, plunging deepest
into the community. Granted, there are many dogs, but they
let me by unheeded, and the few weird looking men I come across
pose no threat. As usual, most people are curious and
friendly, some opening beautiful smiles or a salutation. At
this later hour, the area is bustling with activity, so many
construction workers living here, towed around in overfilled
trucks, groups that smile back at me as I salute them, uniformed
children taken or going to school, some who run with me a few
yards, and all the village activity, cooking outside, washing,
swiping the floor with stick brooms, etc.
-- Slum children, Dumnore house area, Nellurahalli --
I came back the next day, hoping to distribute the images:
Tired again unfortunately, but like yesterday, running
nevertheless feels easier.
I have returned to the Dumnore house slums carrying
printouts of the pictures in a USPS enveloppe. I'm
actually carrying a few things, camera wrapped in
a towel, enveloppe, and of course my rock (my stupid
Adidas shorts make it awkward to put all that in my
pockets).
But it is too early (6am start). No sign of the kids.
I do see many slum dwellers, strangely, mostly woman
in the first one, man in the second. I wave, but for
some reason have this strange feeling of hostility,
which could be purely subjective. For example, a woman
I wave to starts blabbering in Kannada, and later, the
men just stare at me from a distance. Have I crossed
some unknown barrier?
If the kids still aren't there tomorrow, I'll approach
the adults to give them the pictures.
Contact, at last!
A gorgeous sunny day. Unfortunately, I feel very tired
once again, not able to sleep enough, and having run every
single day.
But I'm determined to attempt once again to distribute my
pictures, hoping that at this later hour (about 7:30), I will
find a better reception. This is my last chance before leaving
for the States.
I take the exact same road, the small trail flanking
Palm Meadows, crossing the Siddhapura / Nellurahalli road,
right into the Dunmore area. I am passed near the intersection
by a school bus on the dirt road, but it turns to the left.
Approaching the first set of slums, I'm disappointed to not
see any kids, although there is some activity around the
shacks (as often, cooking, washing outside). A strong pack
of dogs in the barren field peacefully watches me run by.
As I turn the corner towards the second community,
I see the two girls from the other day, playing on the trail.
They recognize me as I present myself. I carefully take the
printouts out of the enveloppe, and watch in awe their faces
lighten up as they recognize themselves. I ask them to please
take the pictures as presents, which they do, although the
girl emphatically refuses to keep the picture of the two
boys in school uniforms. While they run back to their shacks
to share with the adults, a young man walks by, and I ask
him if he would know those boys. He gestures to the previous
set of shacks, and after asking I hand him over the remaining
photograph for him to give to the boys.
Meanwhile, the girls have created some stir in the tiny
community, and I hear laughs. I respectfully ask from the
trail if I could come by, and the slum dwellers wave me
in. I join the group in front of the shacks, introduce
myself, quickly realizing that these people speak Kannada
only. We manage to communicate neverthless, through gestures
and smiles, but many of my questions remained unanswered.
If only the English speaking boy were here.
They allow me to take more pictures which I promise to
bring back, although I'm not sure if I'm understood. A young
man is eating from a large plate of rice, as they continue
to laugh at the pictures. "Name?", I ask pointing at the
little girl, but once again I'm unable to retain the complicated
response. I try to find out their occupation, point at the
distant ITPL towers as my work. One woman has started to
wash her daughter while allowing me to take pictures.
We wave each other goodbye as I resume my run towards
ITPL, hoping to God that this embryonic relationship
will survive my two week absence.
I take the direct Nellurahalli road for the second
time, right through the village and through more small
slums, at this hour at peack activity. It feels easy,
nonchalant, the weariness by now completely dissipated.
-- Slum dwellers, "Dunmore house" --