port blair

if i hadn't seen the crystal clear waters, that blur into deep blue, lining palm fringed beaches from the plane, i would've been very upset when i laid foot in port blair, the entrance point and capital of the andaman islands. to put it simply, port blair is a dump.

as there was not much to see, i decided to run a few arrons. i finished the book a was reading on the plane and foolishly failed to get myself a backup volume before leaving the mainland. unsure of what kind of books i would find, i went off on a quest for good literature. it wasn't easy - it never is - as the first challenge was to find an actual bookshop but, all things measured, it was easier then i thought. i settled for the only two english languages books that i hadn't already read. they were both by indian authors unknown to me - that know hardly anything of indian literature - and came out to be a pleasant discovery.

after that, i went to the post office to set my letters in motion. in india, anything and everything that involves beaurocracy has a lot to be said about, the post office being no exception. i've visited a few different branches, perhaps one in every town i've been so far, and so i should have got used to the way things work inside the institutional grounds. i suppose the procedure is similar to that of any other place. you go to the counter and ask for stamps or require to send a parcel. they weigh it, you pay and leave. it's that simple although never quite so simple. there is always something that gets in the way - finding the right counter, a person who understands what you say or your place in the queue - making what would otherwise be a simple affair, into an event for the day. however, after a few visits, it's not so much what happens but the settings that catch the eye. there are piles of notebooks lying about, with their strong bindings struggling to keep all the pages together. some are lucky enough to live confortably in shelves, while others are piled around or over and under desks, bits of pages sticking out, flapping to the fan generated breeze.

seeing this, i feel like a spy on a mission to report back to the west with tales of the unimaginable. i've often felt tempted to snatch up my camera but have always repressed this instinct on the grounds that i might be offending the postal workers with my judgemental gaze. however, i came to find out, surprised, the innumerous doors that open up to the sound of a digital click. it's been like this at markets, side of the road tea stalls and the odd place. it's like a magic trick that triggers smiles on the stranger's face. people seem delighted to be on the spot light and these encounters often lead to exchanges of addresses, enquiries about the traveller's life and sometimes even parting gifts: a couple of carrots, a small painted flower on the back of my hand, a jasmin garland.

this time, i filled myself with courage and asked if i could take a picture. the man on the desk said yes without giving it much thought so i took out my camera and snapped a few shots until i was interrupted by a man who walked firmly towards me. when he asked me, 'is this service very different from your country?', i thought i was going to be told off.

i replied, 'the settings are different.'

'here, we register all by hand.'

i said 'in my country it's done by computer and the parcels are usually wrapped in paper. they don't stich them.', trying to explain my curiosity. and then added, 'but the service is the same.'.

he seemed pleased, i took more pictures.