I was brought to the mysterious world of Chinnalapuram by my friend Dr. Uma Raman to document a research project she is running there. I will talk more about that in a few days or so, but now I want to show you in what kind of area this project is being carried out.
Chinnalapuram is a very poor part of the city of Vellore in the southeasternmost state of Tamil Nadu in India. Vellore itself is mostly famous for its two prestigious colleges, the Christian Medical College of Vellore and the Vellore institute of Technology, both highly regarded nationally, while Chinnalapuram could be a small part of any city in India.

Crossing the railway, you enter a world buzzing with activity, but very few cars or trucks. This is partly because of it being tricky to drive there, but also because most people who live and work there have no cars and very little need for them even if they could afford them.
The absence of the traffic so common in modern life gives the place a relaxed atmosphere, despite the abundance of activity. It is like entering a tiny self-sustained community seperated from the rest of the world.
Although predominantly Hindu, it has a noticeable number of Christians and Muslims and walking the streets you see all sorts of people, as well as cows and dogs, the milkman on his bike going from place to place, shopkeepers, children running around and the butcher preparing chicken for sale. A group of rickshaw drivers are having a break, chatting to each other. As I walk by they point to a stock of bananas in one of the rickshaws and want me to take a picture. Further down the street a man is rolling beedis, the typical handrolled cigarette so common in India, made from tobacco flakes wrapped into a leaf from the Tendu tree and then tied up with a small piece of string. Tied together, they are then packed into boxes next to him. In the building next door a man is welding what looks like a fence and a few steps away from him, someone is making chapatis, the flat bread served with most meals all over India. Opposite him on this tiny road is not an entrepreneurial genius but simply a man who bought an iron and started ironing clothes. Working for yourself is the norm in this area.

Approaching the clinic where we are going, I hear loud music played by a band of enthusiastic musicians. A man has died and in the building behind them the funeral is taking place. Across the street there is a calf tied to a waterpump. Everyone wants their picture taken. Most people are smiling or laughing.

Somehow, this place feels so real. They live here, they work here and they die here. Maybe it is this that makes it feel so different. That everything between birth and death, earth and sky happens in the exact same location. There is no separation. And even though I know this is a poor area, it seems quite the opposite.