Saharanpur, is a city a few hours drive to the north of Delhi. Amit the Poet (see last week), volunteered to come with me to see if he help. You may have read about the terrible floods in India, well our trip was not so far away. Refuges from Uttarakhand were living in tented towns on the side of the road and in a road side cafe I met a Japanese couple, who were on a pilgrimage in the area who told me they were lucky to escape. The usual road to Saharanpur was closed, and the route we took had long stretches of mud track where progress was at a bouncy painful 10 km per hour. I was delighted / horrified to see marijuana growing wild along the edge of the road.

So the trip was only about 200 kilometres but it felt like a major trek. Arriving in town felt like arriving in some Afghanistan outpost. It has a rural wild west feel, mud roads, oxen carts loaded with sheesham wood logs, and dark dangerous looking men with swarthy looks. There are men with guns in this town where our display stands come from. I was quite glad to have Amit along, who it turned out could speak the local lingo, and understood the local culture.

There is a market here for raw wood brought down from the Nepal border, and places beyond, often by horse and cart. I learned that one of the reasons for our lack of supplies is that the wood now is controlled tightly, everything must be farmed sustainably. Tree's cannot be cut until they are over a certain girth. This has pushed up the price of wood dramatically, and demand for many products has dried up because they are now prohibitively expensive, this has caused problems in this already desperately poor area. Furniture that was made here in sheesham wood is now made in China or elsewhere in cheaper woods or even MDF.

Rashid, who we came to meet (not the problem supplier, but a possible solution) turned out to be a delightful man. Humble and shy, with a childlike honest face. He has a small factory here, where unlike many other suppliers most of the production is done under one roof and the artisans have steady jobs and relatively good working conditions.
We were invited to his home, which I know is a rare and great honour. "We can eat in your hotel" he said, "or my wife can cook biryani for you. In my home we have one extra spice..." he said and then after a pause a shy smile and a wobble of the head he explained; "the spice of love".

The house was home to a large extended family who all seemed to be coming and going, we where taken to a small room with two enormous fans whirring away to keep the heat down, and given chairs around a low table they even found a fork for me. The men folk eat together in this culture so we were brought steaming pots of delicious food, including probably the most aromatic and tasty biryani I ever eaten. Amit entertained them with poetry in their own language, and I just soaked up the warm hospitality. Later Rashid's wife came to sit with us, unveiled and smiling happily, another great honour.

On reflection, what I learned from the trip is that maybe we have to get used to paying a little more for sheesham wood gifts, and value this wood more. It's not just a nice wooden box with pretty brass inlay.. it's a whole culture under threat.

More stories next week.

Regards
David

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