On the 16th of May 2011, the moon was full, although hiding in the cloudy Rishikesh sky. Not long before midnight, I had a hankering to sit beneath the murky night anyway and eat cake on my balcony. As I took the few flights down to the kitchen, hotel manager Mahesh asked me if I wanted to join him and 15 Russian / Ukranian yogis on a ten day pilgrimage into the Himlayas. Known as Char Dam, this pilgrimage visits four sacred sites around the Uttarakhand province. We would leave in 8 hours or so, and at first I dismissed the invitation, thinking only about how unprepared I was (no jacket, one pair of skinny socks, only running shoes). But, after watching the Ganga float by, silent as usual, and recognizing that I was kind of stagnating in the Rishikesh heat, I decided to do it. To take a risk, pack my bags and jump aboard. Why not?
But of course I was nervous. Usually travelling alone, I avoid packaged tours, particularly ones where I would be the only one not speaking Russian! I barely slept that night but woke anyway at 6 to meet my makeshift family for the next ten days over breakfast.
ON THE FIRST DAY, WE DRIVE FROM RISHIKESH TO BARKOT, FRESH AND EXCITED...
Luckily, I had another girl sharing my car who had also come in at the last minute. She was not part of the tour group but happened to be Russian also although spoke very good English, so our first few hours in the car passed easily as we shared our travel stories and philosophies. After stopping at a beautiful temple a few hours out of Rishikesh to wash the crystal Shiva lingam, eat some prasad and feed the rest of it to the monkeys, we drove a few more hours to 'Kempty Falls', a popular tourist destination for Indian families. Based around a waterfall and a man-made lake in which tug boats rode around and around in mindless circles, we elbowed our way through the crowdloads of people and were overwhelmed at the colours dancing in front of us - various shacks were renting out day-glo pink, green, blue and orange plastic tubes to float inside by the hour. The air was thick with excited shrieks as fully clothed Indian girls and turbanned Sikhs pushed each other overboard repeatedly. A few of the more adventurous dived into the falls, although I stayed dry for the moment and searched for a hat to shield my pale, pale skin from the sun.
In a dhaba deemed respectable enough by our guides, we shared our first meal together, and I began to get to know some of my fellow travellers and tried to remember their unfamiliar names - I'd taught a Natalia and a Sergei before, and my friends have a son called Kolya, so they were easy. I had worked with an Xenia and was familiar with the names Dimitry and Vlad, but others like Vitaly, Zuhara and Gennadiy took longer to memorise. But HEY, I'm a teacher who is faced with memorising 150 new names at the beginning of every school year,so as usual managed to fake it for a few days until I had it sorted.
My favourite moment of the day, and possibly one of my favourites of the whole tour in hindsight, came late in the day after a looong day of driving in a non air-conditioned car. We stopped at a beautiful place whose name I've since forgotten, only remembering that the Yamuna river was flowing, and instantly appealing. Some locals told us there was no way to get down to the river bank but we persisted, and wove our way through the mud and sludge down to her gushing waters. It was here that I began to get a sense of Russian / Ukrainian enthusiasm as most of the men stripped down and dove straight in. They would go on to do this at the drop of a hat many times over the next week or so, bless 'em... I joined in eventually, unable to resist her refreshing waters, although did so fully clothed because quite frankly I could do without the stares of the locals. Simply to be immersed in this body of water was incredible - the current was strong and I clung to a rock for stability as the current washed from me the grime of the day, my paisley Indian clothes swirling and merging with the patterns around me... I felt the power of the river and wondered if any temple on earth could compare to how good this water made me feel...
In Barkot, our first guesthouse of the trip was garishly pink and purple, and typically overpriced for a region that can only open for business for half of the year due to weather conditions. We were dubious about the state of their kitchen but in fact they managed to turn out some pretty decent kai - and I met more of my crew around the long table as we whet our appetites on lady fingers, dhal, potato (a Russian staple we weren't to be a day without!) and chapati.
DAY TWO - WE WALK 6 KMS THROUGH A THRONG OF PILGRIMS AND DONKEY POO, AND BACK DOWN AGAIN
We woke early, despite the 1 a.m noise from a busload of Indian tourists who had arrived late and VERY LOUDLY at our hotel! Very typical of India, and one of the things I struggle with the most - the noise and lack of sensitivity to light sleepers such as myself. But what to do?? We were off to Yamonotri that day, which involved a 6 km trek up to a temple dedicated to the goddess Yamuna, the same river I was so taken by the previous day, and would trek the same path down again after bathing in the hot springs at the summit. I must admit that I wasn't prepared for quite the amount of people that were on this track - it was PACKED! And really put into perspective the preciousness of New Zealanders when I hear people complaining that our tracks are too busy - there were literally thousands and thousands of pilgrims here this day... all walking / being carried by horse or on sherpas' backs to visit this holy place. Madness!
In the carpark we were accosted by various porters / sherpas / donkey hench-men all offering their services to us at an inflated price. After a typical breakfast of paratha and curry though, we were fit and ready to walk the 6 kms - a walk which was not hard, especially considering that at times the track would be too busy to even move! At one stage I was almost crushed for about ten minutes behind a group from Mumbai as the track became too narrow for a two way system. Various cries of "single line! single line!" as well as the usual "chalo chalo chalo!" (Hindi for 'go,damn you!') were heard from all around, but I wasn't phased at this point because a lovely man in a woollen hat behind me had began to sing a Ganesha bhajan and everyone around him joined in. I was LOVING it! and even enjoyed the usual 'which country are you coming from' questions - it seemed that today was a day to make friends with all these families from all around India, excited about doing this pilgrimage to four sacred sites...
Although, by the end of 6 kms I was kind of tired of the shit covered slopes, of the yells and cries as porters tried to avoid donkeys and vice versa, and basic lack of respect for each other and the environment and I was happy to find my Russian / Ukrainian friends up top. I went in excitedly to the ladies bath, but was somewhat uninspired by the dirty looking hot water inside a concrete tub.... sure, it was natural, but it had also bathed thousands of other pilgrims that day... I went in anyway after managing to fight my way through the crowd of women swimming super close to the steps - it's not that it was even that deep beyond the entrance, but Indians are notoriously lacking in confidence when it comes to water, most of them 'not knowing how to do swimming' as they say. So I had half a pool to myself because of their insistence on crowding the entrance to the water. A few minutes of breaststroke was enough for me before we went to a freezing waterfall nearby, with the intention of bathing in Chandra waters (moon) after our Sooria (sun) experience. I must admit that I'm not quite as staunch as those Soviet blokes, who were soon in their underpants again and diving into the freezing waters. I stuck my feet in and it took me five minutes to thaw out... upon reflection, I wish that I had just jumped in actually, but what to do... life is not about regret!
We returned to our same hotel before sundown, so had time to eat and drink the usual copious amounts of chai before our evening meeting about the following day's events... we were to be in the car for most of the day, another situation we were sure to get used to as the kilometres were many and the roads in India, well, they weren't so good...
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Awakening (again)
Up until now I've kept this blog pretty light. I've written about my day to day encounters with locals, red and grey faced monkeys, my avoidance of rickshaws and motorbikes, weaving my way through the throng of pilgrims across bridges and trying not to be horned by cows. It must all seem rather exciting on the surface. But in all honesty, I've been undergoing some kind of a happiness crisis. I've been feeling so alone, sometimes going for days without talking to anyone except for asking for "fruit salad curd and papaya lassi, no sugar please" and "thank you" after paying. I've been sitting on my balcony at night staring into the Ganga and wondering if I'm too old for this after all, and wondering why I travel alone when I have so many amazing friends back home and, in fact, in various pockets around the globe. And then I've been getting frustrated at myself for navel gazing, and feeling guilty for my self-reflection in a country where just living day to day is exhausting enough. Depression is such a Western luxury, and I've certainly suffered for the past few years. I thought that coming back to India would offer me some kind of release from this heavy blanket that descended after I took on my career, but if truth be told the same old blue feelings have been creeping in lately, despite my freedom to do absolutely anything I want; to take three yoga classes a day or to eat chocolate cake for dinner. I've been feeling a change in the way I travel, and what I want, and even missing the daily routine of work as well, which means I may end my travels sooner than I intended to, and go earn some cash; not because I'm broke but because I may simply need the familiarity of 9-5.
So today, I shared all of these epiphanies and more with a lovely Czech girl over breakfast (fruit salad curd and papaya smoothie this time)that I'll probably never see again - we chose not to swap emails or facebook names. I'd had a good yoga class this morning and was feeling particularly energetic as I elbowed my way through the bus loads of Rajasthani tourists fighting their own way across the Laxman Jhula bridge. As the wind blew I cursed the ridiculously frilly skirt I was wearing and tried not to have a Marilyn Monroe moment in the midst of the usual pairs of male eyes boring through me. But apart from that, I had a spring in my step and was off to eat my favourite breakfast at the Little Italy cafe.
I usually sit alone at my own table, not wanting to impose on anyone. I wonder if other travellers feel like I do when I see them sitting alone, or I wonder if they're content to be solitary. And don't get me wrong - sometimes I just want to sit and read my book or write in my journal, which is why I never want to impose on others who might be after the same. But sometimes I wonder why we travel, if we all go to our own little tables, our own separate universes and stick our noses in a book. Anyway, today was different. The restaurateur - a rather good looking Nepalese boy with a slicked back Elvis-esque fringe - was particularly welcoming, and gestured that I should sit down at the table where he was teaching this girl how to make Malai Kofta, so I sat and joined their theoretical cooking class.
We exchange the usual 'where are you froms' and 'how long have you been heres', before quickly, somehow, getting to the heart of the matter - India's heart and how much we both love it. Lately this heart has been changing for me however, either that or I've forgotten how to connect to it, so I express this and we talk, and talk, for over an hour about our lives, our natures, our own searches. How we've both been coming to India for years (me 4, her 6) seeking the peace we never found in our own countries OR in ourselves. Every so often I got distracted by the grey-faced monkeys swinging in the tree overhanging the roof top restaurant and exclaimed how one didn't have a tail!, or how cute one of the babies was. But we'd always come back to our stories - both of similar age and nature, and both travelling alone. How for me it had changed and I no longer wanted to be alone, I'd had enough of it. For over ten years now I've always been so intent on 'doing my own thing', and 'walking my own path' that I continued to insist on travelling alone or moving to a new town. It's made me who I am, for sure, but now I think that enough may well be enough - I think I'm old enough now to realise how much potential community is around me, and I want to one day settle back into one of those communities. But I'm digressing.
I hadn't realised how much I'd needed to have this conversation with someone. About choosing to be alone or not, and getting older (she 29, me 31) and our lives changing. How we couldn't expect to do the same things year after year, or for the same things to satisfy us. She reminded me of the deep spirituality in this land, which neither of us had found anywhere else. Lately I've been looking too much inside, or perhaps its all perfect, perhaps this stuff has needed to come out of me. Either way, I think 'god', whatever you call him / her / it answered my prayers today. I don't feel alone anymore, right now anyway, and am at peace with my tendency towards depression and I think I know how to combat it. I'll never completely heal it, because how can we completely change our natures? But I can learn to live with it and nurture it and one day even accept the gifts it brings - compassion, quietness, understanding.
So, today I am willing and able to speak about the things that really matter now, and how there's no shame in weakness. We all want to appear so strong all the time - but there's a beauty in letting go and letting our real face, however strong we deem it not to be, show through.
Phew! For the past ten minutes the keyboard's been a flurry of thoughts, and as usual I have a hell of a lot of editing to do. I'm the world's worst fast typer - mistakes fly left right and centre while my fingernails are doing a mad tribal dance over the keyboard. Many have joked about this in the past, but that's how my brain works - quickly!! So I'm going to lightly proofread this and then post, not succumbing to the need to edit, cut out the gushy bits, make more savvy and street wise - I've never been streetwise, I've always been a soft human. This is why I've struggled with teaching so much - there's a limit to how much I can harden myself to humanity's flaws.
It's another beautiful day. I'm going to walk the Beatles road, and properly visit the ashram I visit every year, as when I went the other day the sun was setting and I was too aware of the snakes in the grass or the strangers hiding out in the abandoned buildings to truly explore. But there's a certain peace I find on that road that I want to rediscover today, after such an awakening breakfast meeting. Life is good! and hard, and rough and beautiful. If we can only accept these things about it, rather than expecting it to be easy all the time maybe we can become better and brighter humans. This alone time has been good for me; I can reflect and conclude that straight away. But all of a sudden I feel ready to re-enter the world of the human... and whether or not it lasts, it's going to be sweet...
So today, I shared all of these epiphanies and more with a lovely Czech girl over breakfast (fruit salad curd and papaya smoothie this time)that I'll probably never see again - we chose not to swap emails or facebook names. I'd had a good yoga class this morning and was feeling particularly energetic as I elbowed my way through the bus loads of Rajasthani tourists fighting their own way across the Laxman Jhula bridge. As the wind blew I cursed the ridiculously frilly skirt I was wearing and tried not to have a Marilyn Monroe moment in the midst of the usual pairs of male eyes boring through me. But apart from that, I had a spring in my step and was off to eat my favourite breakfast at the Little Italy cafe.
I usually sit alone at my own table, not wanting to impose on anyone. I wonder if other travellers feel like I do when I see them sitting alone, or I wonder if they're content to be solitary. And don't get me wrong - sometimes I just want to sit and read my book or write in my journal, which is why I never want to impose on others who might be after the same. But sometimes I wonder why we travel, if we all go to our own little tables, our own separate universes and stick our noses in a book. Anyway, today was different. The restaurateur - a rather good looking Nepalese boy with a slicked back Elvis-esque fringe - was particularly welcoming, and gestured that I should sit down at the table where he was teaching this girl how to make Malai Kofta, so I sat and joined their theoretical cooking class.
We exchange the usual 'where are you froms' and 'how long have you been heres', before quickly, somehow, getting to the heart of the matter - India's heart and how much we both love it. Lately this heart has been changing for me however, either that or I've forgotten how to connect to it, so I express this and we talk, and talk, for over an hour about our lives, our natures, our own searches. How we've both been coming to India for years (me 4, her 6) seeking the peace we never found in our own countries OR in ourselves. Every so often I got distracted by the grey-faced monkeys swinging in the tree overhanging the roof top restaurant and exclaimed how one didn't have a tail!, or how cute one of the babies was. But we'd always come back to our stories - both of similar age and nature, and both travelling alone. How for me it had changed and I no longer wanted to be alone, I'd had enough of it. For over ten years now I've always been so intent on 'doing my own thing', and 'walking my own path' that I continued to insist on travelling alone or moving to a new town. It's made me who I am, for sure, but now I think that enough may well be enough - I think I'm old enough now to realise how much potential community is around me, and I want to one day settle back into one of those communities. But I'm digressing.
I hadn't realised how much I'd needed to have this conversation with someone. About choosing to be alone or not, and getting older (she 29, me 31) and our lives changing. How we couldn't expect to do the same things year after year, or for the same things to satisfy us. She reminded me of the deep spirituality in this land, which neither of us had found anywhere else. Lately I've been looking too much inside, or perhaps its all perfect, perhaps this stuff has needed to come out of me. Either way, I think 'god', whatever you call him / her / it answered my prayers today. I don't feel alone anymore, right now anyway, and am at peace with my tendency towards depression and I think I know how to combat it. I'll never completely heal it, because how can we completely change our natures? But I can learn to live with it and nurture it and one day even accept the gifts it brings - compassion, quietness, understanding.
So, today I am willing and able to speak about the things that really matter now, and how there's no shame in weakness. We all want to appear so strong all the time - but there's a beauty in letting go and letting our real face, however strong we deem it not to be, show through.
Phew! For the past ten minutes the keyboard's been a flurry of thoughts, and as usual I have a hell of a lot of editing to do. I'm the world's worst fast typer - mistakes fly left right and centre while my fingernails are doing a mad tribal dance over the keyboard. Many have joked about this in the past, but that's how my brain works - quickly!! So I'm going to lightly proofread this and then post, not succumbing to the need to edit, cut out the gushy bits, make more savvy and street wise - I've never been streetwise, I've always been a soft human. This is why I've struggled with teaching so much - there's a limit to how much I can harden myself to humanity's flaws.
It's another beautiful day. I'm going to walk the Beatles road, and properly visit the ashram I visit every year, as when I went the other day the sun was setting and I was too aware of the snakes in the grass or the strangers hiding out in the abandoned buildings to truly explore. But there's a certain peace I find on that road that I want to rediscover today, after such an awakening breakfast meeting. Life is good! and hard, and rough and beautiful. If we can only accept these things about it, rather than expecting it to be easy all the time maybe we can become better and brighter humans. This alone time has been good for me; I can reflect and conclude that straight away. But all of a sudden I feel ready to re-enter the world of the human... and whether or not it lasts, it's going to be sweet...
Rishikesh
Beautiful, beautiful Rishikesh... even the name is beautiful. The yoga capital of India and possibly the world; definitely the original world capital of yoga. Perhaps San Francisco has that title now, or somewhere else where health and Eastern philosophies are well revered and costly. It feels so good to be here, so right! Even if I can't do any of the yoga because of aforementioned newly sprained ankle. Oh well.
After a few days when I decide that walking short distances is acceptable, I take a morning stroll across the Laxman Jhula bridge, turn left and begin the short walk to the beach' I used to frequent five years ago, having fond memories of spending the hot afternoons there philosophising with my newfound friends and taking short dips in the freezing Ganga whenever the sun got too much to bear. Fully clothed, but more for self-protection than the fear of offending anyone. And I'm reminded of this after I've been sitting, quietly musing on life for five minutes. Your typical young Indian man saunters down and finds a spot near me in the rocks, bending down as if to have his own private moment with the water. For a fleeting moment I wonder if he's going to perform his own personal puja, but the thought is quashed from my mind as soon as he turns to me, and I think 'here we go again...' And the conversation goes like this:
Boy: "Hello"
Me (reluctantly) 'Hi"
...silence...
"Cigarette. Give me cigarette." No need for manners here obviously...
(Angrily, cause I've had enough of boys like him) "No! I don't smoke"
...silence...
"Fuck. Give me one fuck"
...disbelief...
"ARE YOU ******** SERIOUS?????"
to which I pick up my bag and make for the nearest exit while he runs away in the opposite direction. Fool!
Ahh, I never thought I'd hear myself saying this, but... I may well be over India this time. Over travelling alone anyway. I used to be able to brush situations like this off easily, but now I wonder why I should have to. I'm brimming with indignation and disgust, and unfortunately take it out on any man whose eyes linger on me longer than a few moments in the next few days. Cocky young turbanned Sikhs on the bridge who leer, I turn around and evil eye them back. Proud city-slickers with their designer jeans and childs' mentalities, I push past them and stomp awy from their stares. Skinny bookkeepers that try for generic and meaningless compliments, "Ohhh, so beautiful," get an earful too - "Keep it to yourself! You don't need to comment on my appearance!" Wow. I never knew I had it in me... But I've had enough... although by the next day when I meet some friends for lunch and tell them my riverbank seduction, I can't finish my sentences for laughing at the ridiculousness of it all... I mean, was asking for a smoke his version of foreplay? Did he really think that would work?? Maybe he thought that one day it might... and I find another reason not to love Hollywood and its mindless heroines, giving India this idea that white chicks will sleep with anyone...
God help any woman born into this culture that doesn't have an open minded family is all I can say... again, again, again, I count my blessings...
Rishikesh is hot, but not like Pushkar. In fact, sometimes at nights the clouds gather to listen to the thunder roll in from the distance, and eventually rain down over everything. It cools the atmosphere massively, and makes the recurring powercuts easier to handle. But the height of the day is best spent napping... that's what most of the shop keepers do anyway, and I don't blame 'em...
She's a holy holy place though, Rishikesh, despite the odd opportune horny young boy. Sadhus are everywhere, both real and fake, either asking you for money or leaving you alone completely - that's how you know who's real and who's not. A real baba would never hassle anyone for money or proclaim to perform miracles for a price - they might sit on the street with a begging bowl outstretched if things got too much, but they would never force themselves on anyone. And anyway, the babas get fed here in this holy holy city - I've seen them line up for alms around 6 pm... they have a pretty good life here, all things considered. Particularly given that they choose to leave their families and wander ascetically around the country from pilgrimage to pilgrimage. Yesterday I saw a serious looking dude completely covered in ash, which I can only guess is human ash - he looked like a tantric baba, who hang out in graveyards to break their ideas about life and death and to get over their idea about right and wrong, because in this universe, everything is sacred. Everything is sacred... He walked with his Shiva trident and golden begging bowl as if on a mission, his dreadlocks bouncing in a knot on his head, bare feet well used to pounding the hot pavement.
I find an ayurvedic restaurant that does the most dreamy papaya coconut drink ever - all kind of soft and calming and soothing... but can't finish my plate of mung bean kitchori because of the heat... I wander back, drink lemon soda with some new friends, talk about how India hasn't changed much in all the years we've been here...
And it hasn't, despite the influx of bikes and real coffee shops (No Starbucks here yet, but give them time...) and Western clothes, things have pretty much stayed the same. 90% of the country still have their own marriages arranged for them (in super traditional Rajasthan I met two lovely Brahmin boys who'd been married since they were five, to girls they hadn't even met yet...) and pray to multicoloured gods they'd never question. Places like Delhi and Mumbai are exceptions, and they interest me a lot - this modern India with young minds questioning norms that have stood for centuries. Why not, I say? It's exciting, this thought of change... although I love the antiquity of the place; the silent temples, the dirt roads... I'm torn between the way things are, and the way things could be. If young boys could learn to respect women more, if grown men could learn to be men, if animals weren't mistreated, if rubbish could go in the bin and not on the roadside... imagine how much more amazing this already magical country could be...
After a few days when I decide that walking short distances is acceptable, I take a morning stroll across the Laxman Jhula bridge, turn left and begin the short walk to the beach' I used to frequent five years ago, having fond memories of spending the hot afternoons there philosophising with my newfound friends and taking short dips in the freezing Ganga whenever the sun got too much to bear. Fully clothed, but more for self-protection than the fear of offending anyone. And I'm reminded of this after I've been sitting, quietly musing on life for five minutes. Your typical young Indian man saunters down and finds a spot near me in the rocks, bending down as if to have his own private moment with the water. For a fleeting moment I wonder if he's going to perform his own personal puja, but the thought is quashed from my mind as soon as he turns to me, and I think 'here we go again...' And the conversation goes like this:
Boy: "Hello"
Me (reluctantly) 'Hi"
...silence...
"Cigarette. Give me cigarette." No need for manners here obviously...
(Angrily, cause I've had enough of boys like him) "No! I don't smoke"
...silence...
"Fuck. Give me one fuck"
...disbelief...
"ARE YOU ******** SERIOUS?????"
to which I pick up my bag and make for the nearest exit while he runs away in the opposite direction. Fool!
Ahh, I never thought I'd hear myself saying this, but... I may well be over India this time. Over travelling alone anyway. I used to be able to brush situations like this off easily, but now I wonder why I should have to. I'm brimming with indignation and disgust, and unfortunately take it out on any man whose eyes linger on me longer than a few moments in the next few days. Cocky young turbanned Sikhs on the bridge who leer, I turn around and evil eye them back. Proud city-slickers with their designer jeans and childs' mentalities, I push past them and stomp awy from their stares. Skinny bookkeepers that try for generic and meaningless compliments, "Ohhh, so beautiful," get an earful too - "Keep it to yourself! You don't need to comment on my appearance!" Wow. I never knew I had it in me... But I've had enough... although by the next day when I meet some friends for lunch and tell them my riverbank seduction, I can't finish my sentences for laughing at the ridiculousness of it all... I mean, was asking for a smoke his version of foreplay? Did he really think that would work?? Maybe he thought that one day it might... and I find another reason not to love Hollywood and its mindless heroines, giving India this idea that white chicks will sleep with anyone...
God help any woman born into this culture that doesn't have an open minded family is all I can say... again, again, again, I count my blessings...
Rishikesh is hot, but not like Pushkar. In fact, sometimes at nights the clouds gather to listen to the thunder roll in from the distance, and eventually rain down over everything. It cools the atmosphere massively, and makes the recurring powercuts easier to handle. But the height of the day is best spent napping... that's what most of the shop keepers do anyway, and I don't blame 'em...
She's a holy holy place though, Rishikesh, despite the odd opportune horny young boy. Sadhus are everywhere, both real and fake, either asking you for money or leaving you alone completely - that's how you know who's real and who's not. A real baba would never hassle anyone for money or proclaim to perform miracles for a price - they might sit on the street with a begging bowl outstretched if things got too much, but they would never force themselves on anyone. And anyway, the babas get fed here in this holy holy city - I've seen them line up for alms around 6 pm... they have a pretty good life here, all things considered. Particularly given that they choose to leave their families and wander ascetically around the country from pilgrimage to pilgrimage. Yesterday I saw a serious looking dude completely covered in ash, which I can only guess is human ash - he looked like a tantric baba, who hang out in graveyards to break their ideas about life and death and to get over their idea about right and wrong, because in this universe, everything is sacred. Everything is sacred... He walked with his Shiva trident and golden begging bowl as if on a mission, his dreadlocks bouncing in a knot on his head, bare feet well used to pounding the hot pavement.
I find an ayurvedic restaurant that does the most dreamy papaya coconut drink ever - all kind of soft and calming and soothing... but can't finish my plate of mung bean kitchori because of the heat... I wander back, drink lemon soda with some new friends, talk about how India hasn't changed much in all the years we've been here...
And it hasn't, despite the influx of bikes and real coffee shops (No Starbucks here yet, but give them time...) and Western clothes, things have pretty much stayed the same. 90% of the country still have their own marriages arranged for them (in super traditional Rajasthan I met two lovely Brahmin boys who'd been married since they were five, to girls they hadn't even met yet...) and pray to multicoloured gods they'd never question. Places like Delhi and Mumbai are exceptions, and they interest me a lot - this modern India with young minds questioning norms that have stood for centuries. Why not, I say? It's exciting, this thought of change... although I love the antiquity of the place; the silent temples, the dirt roads... I'm torn between the way things are, and the way things could be. If young boys could learn to respect women more, if grown men could learn to be men, if animals weren't mistreated, if rubbish could go in the bin and not on the roadside... imagine how much more amazing this already magical country could be...
Thursday, May 12, 2011
Leaving Pushkar
The heat was getting to me... I'd had enough of spending the entire afternoon moving from fan to fan, in my friend's shop, in my room that never seemed to be cool enough, or in various family houses... I had no choice, I had to leave to escape these temperatures that were getting into their forties...
So I did the rounds of the family houses and said my goodbyes. Got gifted some beautiful bangles by a friend's mother - all wrapped in newspaper and stowed away secretly, ones she never wore but probably took out from time to time to inspect, her keepsakes from a long and successful marriage... they were beautiful. Although one of them broke on the first wearing - typically badly made things... that are bought and bought again... still, the gesture was nice and I wear the remaining spangly bracelets from time to time...
My night bus left at 4.30 and was to arrive in Haridwar at 9 a.m the next morning, but of course I knew that nothing could ever be that simple. From there I'd take a local bus to Rishikesh and then a rickshaw to Lakshman Jhula - and was planning to stay for a month, as Rishikesh is possibly my favourite place in all of India.
The bus was filled with colorful Rajasthani saris and turbans. This traditional state sure does like its colours, and so did I... the saris differed from the norm in that instead of a thicker main veil covering everything, their veil was often sheer and a differing colour to the accompanying blouse and skirt, so you'd often see a canary yellow veil over emerald green, or hot pink shielding azure blue... stunning...
The bus trip was pretty standard... bad makeshift toilets and the usual 1 a.m dinner stop, this time at a suprisingly clean 'dhaba' or road side restaurant. I ate some fairly tasteless biriyani, still nursing a stomach that quivered occasionally from too much flavour. Whilst I ate, a young girl around 12 approached me to strike up a conversation. Her English was great and I wondered what would become of her... whether she'd be allowed to continue her education or whether things would stop for her once she married. I hoped the former. She reminded me of a young Neelum, who I'd really enjoyed spending time with in Pushkar, an educated young woman who was helping to support her parents with her primary teaching work but who, once she married within the next year, may have to give up her job and start to wear the saris she hated. She said it all depended on her husband's family and what they wanted her to do and to wear. I hoped for her that she would be allowed to keep working, and I think her family will choose well... she may even have some say in the matter, but not likely very much!
One exciting escapade happened on the bus the following morning. We'd just stopped for breakfast at a place that I thought was Haridwar, but after lugging my baggage with me off the bus I only had to pile it all back on again when I found out we were still 2 hours away. Even though it was already 9.30. Oh well... We hadn't been long back on the bus, when a man near me seemed to seize up. He seemed to stiffen his back and clutch at his knee, so at first I thought that he'd had some kind of a twinge and was lying down to manage the pain silently. But then I saw him shaking and realised he was having a seizure at the same time that his daughter (5 years?) began to cry. I tried my best to roll him onto his side, trying to communicate with those around me and hoped they understood the word 'epilepsy'. If it was that - I never found out but I think that was the most likely situation. He was heavy so I was glad when some men came forward to help, but I encountered a problem when I kept saying 'side' to try to communicate that that is how we should turn him, into recovery position. Unfortunately, in India, 'side' is what you want to say when you want someone to move out of the way! You hear it all the time from men trawling heavy carts, bellowing 'SIIIIDE!' in the marketplace. Anyway, we managed to turn him but noticed blood was trickling out of his mouth. I didn't realise it at first but he'd obviously bit his tongue as we didn't get there fast enough to clear his airway. Once the men were in charge of holding him and tried to sprinkle a bit of water onto his face to help him awaken, I turned to his daughter who was bawling her eyes out with no other family member on the bus. How scary it must have been for her!
Thankfully within a few minutes the worst was over, and he was breathing heavily and trying to wake up. His daughter, although still highly distraught, could see that he was going to be okay, and the men took over and grabbed his mobile out of his pocket to try to find out where home was. Turns out him and his daughter were on their way to a family wedding in Haridwar, but thankfully had just left their station, so it seemed the best thing for them to do was to turn back. From then on I just sat and tried to listen, offered them my toilet paper (a complete luxury, and unnecessary for most people) to mop up the blood which had spilled onto his good wedding shirt. His daughter's name was Saraswati and when the men found that out, they chucked her under the chin and made noises to show they approved - a pretty special thing to be named after such a famous goddess!
Somehow the men found out that the man in question was an alcoholic. He didn't have a doctor and no-one knew if these fits had happened before- he probably didn't even know himself. He didn't say much afterwards, was probably trying to get some semblance of normality back into his day, and just sat there smoking beedies out the window. In typical Indian style, everyone on the bus took turns to come right down to the back of the bus where we were and have a good old look. There is no such thing as privacy in India! Someone brought half a packet of Parle G biscuits down for the child, and we tried to get the man to eat some sugar as well, which he refused before we found a massive bag of wedding sweets in his luggage which his wife had probably spent days preparing. Just because I was a foreigner, the men insisted that I try both a salty and a sweet one, as they were special wedding sweets. Not the best thing for an empty stomach trying to get rid of a bug, but oh well - it's near impossible to say no to food in India.
Soon enough the man and his daughter were led off to a different bus going back the way we'd come, so we knew they'd be with their family again before long. But the whole experience made me think that, to a large extent, we create our own destinies. This man was apparently an alcoholic whose serious health problem had gone undiagnosed and would probably remain so if he couldn't give up on the drink. I say 'apparently' because I never spoke to him myself, only to the men who had communicated with the family on the phone. It made me realise that so much of the time, there is a way out of a situation there for us, but we have to be willing enough to take the first step. And I couldn't stop thinking of his poor daughter and wondered if she'd witnessed fits like that before, and how helpless she must have felt.Thank goodness for community though - so many people were willing to help, and I know the situation could have been much worse.
Eventually the bus arrived in Haridwar, and instead of waiting for the local bus I splashed out on a shared rickshaw, which was actually only 70 rupees, all the way to Lakshman Jhula. The driver wouldn't take me any further than the taxi stand however, so I had to endure a very steep walk with all my luggage down to see if my hotel of five years ago was still available, and at one stage I fell and twisted my ankle pretty badly, in front of a group of men who all rushed over to try to help, bless them. This meant that I spent the first few days in the yoga capital of the world moving slowly from hotel balcony to hotel restaurant to hotel room! But all's well now, or mostly.. and I'm going to try my first yoga class tomorrow to attempt to work off all the German bakery items I've been devouring in my enforced down-time... at least I've had a Ganga view to gaze upon, and a wonderfully peaceful hotel balcony to pass the evenings on. More soon xx
So I did the rounds of the family houses and said my goodbyes. Got gifted some beautiful bangles by a friend's mother - all wrapped in newspaper and stowed away secretly, ones she never wore but probably took out from time to time to inspect, her keepsakes from a long and successful marriage... they were beautiful. Although one of them broke on the first wearing - typically badly made things... that are bought and bought again... still, the gesture was nice and I wear the remaining spangly bracelets from time to time...
My night bus left at 4.30 and was to arrive in Haridwar at 9 a.m the next morning, but of course I knew that nothing could ever be that simple. From there I'd take a local bus to Rishikesh and then a rickshaw to Lakshman Jhula - and was planning to stay for a month, as Rishikesh is possibly my favourite place in all of India.
The bus was filled with colorful Rajasthani saris and turbans. This traditional state sure does like its colours, and so did I... the saris differed from the norm in that instead of a thicker main veil covering everything, their veil was often sheer and a differing colour to the accompanying blouse and skirt, so you'd often see a canary yellow veil over emerald green, or hot pink shielding azure blue... stunning...
The bus trip was pretty standard... bad makeshift toilets and the usual 1 a.m dinner stop, this time at a suprisingly clean 'dhaba' or road side restaurant. I ate some fairly tasteless biriyani, still nursing a stomach that quivered occasionally from too much flavour. Whilst I ate, a young girl around 12 approached me to strike up a conversation. Her English was great and I wondered what would become of her... whether she'd be allowed to continue her education or whether things would stop for her once she married. I hoped the former. She reminded me of a young Neelum, who I'd really enjoyed spending time with in Pushkar, an educated young woman who was helping to support her parents with her primary teaching work but who, once she married within the next year, may have to give up her job and start to wear the saris she hated. She said it all depended on her husband's family and what they wanted her to do and to wear. I hoped for her that she would be allowed to keep working, and I think her family will choose well... she may even have some say in the matter, but not likely very much!
One exciting escapade happened on the bus the following morning. We'd just stopped for breakfast at a place that I thought was Haridwar, but after lugging my baggage with me off the bus I only had to pile it all back on again when I found out we were still 2 hours away. Even though it was already 9.30. Oh well... We hadn't been long back on the bus, when a man near me seemed to seize up. He seemed to stiffen his back and clutch at his knee, so at first I thought that he'd had some kind of a twinge and was lying down to manage the pain silently. But then I saw him shaking and realised he was having a seizure at the same time that his daughter (5 years?) began to cry. I tried my best to roll him onto his side, trying to communicate with those around me and hoped they understood the word 'epilepsy'. If it was that - I never found out but I think that was the most likely situation. He was heavy so I was glad when some men came forward to help, but I encountered a problem when I kept saying 'side' to try to communicate that that is how we should turn him, into recovery position. Unfortunately, in India, 'side' is what you want to say when you want someone to move out of the way! You hear it all the time from men trawling heavy carts, bellowing 'SIIIIDE!' in the marketplace. Anyway, we managed to turn him but noticed blood was trickling out of his mouth. I didn't realise it at first but he'd obviously bit his tongue as we didn't get there fast enough to clear his airway. Once the men were in charge of holding him and tried to sprinkle a bit of water onto his face to help him awaken, I turned to his daughter who was bawling her eyes out with no other family member on the bus. How scary it must have been for her!
Thankfully within a few minutes the worst was over, and he was breathing heavily and trying to wake up. His daughter, although still highly distraught, could see that he was going to be okay, and the men took over and grabbed his mobile out of his pocket to try to find out where home was. Turns out him and his daughter were on their way to a family wedding in Haridwar, but thankfully had just left their station, so it seemed the best thing for them to do was to turn back. From then on I just sat and tried to listen, offered them my toilet paper (a complete luxury, and unnecessary for most people) to mop up the blood which had spilled onto his good wedding shirt. His daughter's name was Saraswati and when the men found that out, they chucked her under the chin and made noises to show they approved - a pretty special thing to be named after such a famous goddess!
Somehow the men found out that the man in question was an alcoholic. He didn't have a doctor and no-one knew if these fits had happened before- he probably didn't even know himself. He didn't say much afterwards, was probably trying to get some semblance of normality back into his day, and just sat there smoking beedies out the window. In typical Indian style, everyone on the bus took turns to come right down to the back of the bus where we were and have a good old look. There is no such thing as privacy in India! Someone brought half a packet of Parle G biscuits down for the child, and we tried to get the man to eat some sugar as well, which he refused before we found a massive bag of wedding sweets in his luggage which his wife had probably spent days preparing. Just because I was a foreigner, the men insisted that I try both a salty and a sweet one, as they were special wedding sweets. Not the best thing for an empty stomach trying to get rid of a bug, but oh well - it's near impossible to say no to food in India.
Soon enough the man and his daughter were led off to a different bus going back the way we'd come, so we knew they'd be with their family again before long. But the whole experience made me think that, to a large extent, we create our own destinies. This man was apparently an alcoholic whose serious health problem had gone undiagnosed and would probably remain so if he couldn't give up on the drink. I say 'apparently' because I never spoke to him myself, only to the men who had communicated with the family on the phone. It made me realise that so much of the time, there is a way out of a situation there for us, but we have to be willing enough to take the first step. And I couldn't stop thinking of his poor daughter and wondered if she'd witnessed fits like that before, and how helpless she must have felt.Thank goodness for community though - so many people were willing to help, and I know the situation could have been much worse.
Eventually the bus arrived in Haridwar, and instead of waiting for the local bus I splashed out on a shared rickshaw, which was actually only 70 rupees, all the way to Lakshman Jhula. The driver wouldn't take me any further than the taxi stand however, so I had to endure a very steep walk with all my luggage down to see if my hotel of five years ago was still available, and at one stage I fell and twisted my ankle pretty badly, in front of a group of men who all rushed over to try to help, bless them. This meant that I spent the first few days in the yoga capital of the world moving slowly from hotel balcony to hotel restaurant to hotel room! But all's well now, or mostly.. and I'm going to try my first yoga class tomorrow to attempt to work off all the German bakery items I've been devouring in my enforced down-time... at least I've had a Ganga view to gaze upon, and a wonderfully peaceful hotel balcony to pass the evenings on. More soon xx
Holy Holy Pushkar
In India, there are temples on every street corner and in every shop, kitchen, restaurant and family hearth. There are tiny temples to Ganesha, Hanuman, Shiva, Lakshmi, Saraswati and the rest of the Hindu pantheon. There might be 1000 Ganesha temples in a city alone, probably more!
Except for one god, the creator of them all - Brahma. In Hindu mythology, three main aspects of god are personified in three personalities - Brahma, the creator of the world, Vishnu, the upholder of the world and Shiva, the destroyer. Like the Father, the son and the holy ghost in Christian lore, this idea of the trinity seems to transcend many religions. Anyway, I'm getting off topic. My main point was that, in a country filled with literally millions of different temples to the same god, Brahma has only one. And it's in the holy village of Pushkar. Therefore, it's an important pilgrimage place for most Hindus.
The town of Pushkar is centered around a beautiful lake with 52 ghats, or sets of steps leading down into the waters. Legend has it that Brahma, from his kingdom in the heavens, let one lotus flower fall and decided that wherever it fell, this would be where he would build his first temple. And so the lotus fell, found this place and in its place grew a lake, and the town was named Pushkar - being a kind of flower.
One night, on the sunset ghat, my friend of 7 years, Lala, told me the story of why there was only one Brahma temple. Yes, he may share a name with a teletubbie, but Lala is a good man, a tour guide who I met on my first trip to the village. Since last seeing him he has been married to a woman from Mumbai and they have their first son, whose name I forget, but is one of the many names of Shiva.
Forgive me if I forget or misinterpret this tale. It's been a few weeks now and some of the details have escaped me, and some I never got a chance to ask more about. But it seems that Brahma and his wife Savitri (although I always thought he was married to Saraswati?? Maybe it's another name for her, I don't know.. one of the many bits of missed information I have) had a son, and the son was a trickster, perhaps like New Zealand's Maui. And it was nearing sunset and Brahma needed his wife beside him in order to do the holy fire ceremony of Arati on the lake. For some reason, his son didn't want his mother to be there, so she told her to wait in heaven and that Brahma would come there for her. Meanwhile, Brahma was waiting on earth impatiently for his wife Savitri to turn up, not knowing his son had tricked them both. He really needed a wife to complete this ceremony, so apparently he married another just for the ceremony. And when Savitri found out, she was so angry that she cursed her husband, the creator of the world, and told him he could never build another temple.... that he would never be worshipped anywhere else on earth...
I could have checked this out I suppose, but I'll leave it up to anyone that;s interested. This is pretty much the story that Lala told me as the sun was setting over Savitri mountain, which is apparently where Brahma's first wife waits and pines over her love. Those gods!!! Geez, I don't know...
So this is why the place is so sacred and why Brahmin priests will practically chase you so you throw their flower into the water. Unfortunately, this has become a commercial venture, and tourists are often wrangled out of lots of cash for something that only costs twenty rupees - a quick blessing, some rice and red paste on your forehead, a flower thrown in to the waters, some Sanskrit prayers repeated after thee. I was well onto the scheme, known as the 'Pushkar passport' as afterwards a red and yellow string is wound around your wrist to show that you've participated in the puja and are now free to roam the streets! Honestly, they used to wait at the bus stops for tourists... I didn't notice this this time, but then again I did come at crazy hot season with not many tourists around in general. But one sunset I gave in to an older priest who assured me I could pay what I wanted, and didn't try to dissuade me from giving only twenty rupees. He must have known that I was an old hand at the Pushkar passport... writing this from Rishikesh, a similar things happened to me two days ago down by the Ganga. this baba has 100 rupees proudly on show on his tray of flower petals and red paste, as if this was the asked price. When I paid him the same price he looked at me sadly, and asked 'only twenty?'. Of course baba! It costs almost nothing for you to draw a line on my forehead and say some ancient words - it is nice however, but twenty rupees will buy you a good dinner at least... sadly, there are so many holy men who are not really who they say they are, and are just after another get rich quick scheme... like most people in India, they are just trying to get along, get ahead and save a bit of capital until they have to pay some baksheesh of their own...
Except for one god, the creator of them all - Brahma. In Hindu mythology, three main aspects of god are personified in three personalities - Brahma, the creator of the world, Vishnu, the upholder of the world and Shiva, the destroyer. Like the Father, the son and the holy ghost in Christian lore, this idea of the trinity seems to transcend many religions. Anyway, I'm getting off topic. My main point was that, in a country filled with literally millions of different temples to the same god, Brahma has only one. And it's in the holy village of Pushkar. Therefore, it's an important pilgrimage place for most Hindus.
The town of Pushkar is centered around a beautiful lake with 52 ghats, or sets of steps leading down into the waters. Legend has it that Brahma, from his kingdom in the heavens, let one lotus flower fall and decided that wherever it fell, this would be where he would build his first temple. And so the lotus fell, found this place and in its place grew a lake, and the town was named Pushkar - being a kind of flower.
One night, on the sunset ghat, my friend of 7 years, Lala, told me the story of why there was only one Brahma temple. Yes, he may share a name with a teletubbie, but Lala is a good man, a tour guide who I met on my first trip to the village. Since last seeing him he has been married to a woman from Mumbai and they have their first son, whose name I forget, but is one of the many names of Shiva.
Forgive me if I forget or misinterpret this tale. It's been a few weeks now and some of the details have escaped me, and some I never got a chance to ask more about. But it seems that Brahma and his wife Savitri (although I always thought he was married to Saraswati?? Maybe it's another name for her, I don't know.. one of the many bits of missed information I have) had a son, and the son was a trickster, perhaps like New Zealand's Maui. And it was nearing sunset and Brahma needed his wife beside him in order to do the holy fire ceremony of Arati on the lake. For some reason, his son didn't want his mother to be there, so she told her to wait in heaven and that Brahma would come there for her. Meanwhile, Brahma was waiting on earth impatiently for his wife Savitri to turn up, not knowing his son had tricked them both. He really needed a wife to complete this ceremony, so apparently he married another just for the ceremony. And when Savitri found out, she was so angry that she cursed her husband, the creator of the world, and told him he could never build another temple.... that he would never be worshipped anywhere else on earth...
I could have checked this out I suppose, but I'll leave it up to anyone that;s interested. This is pretty much the story that Lala told me as the sun was setting over Savitri mountain, which is apparently where Brahma's first wife waits and pines over her love. Those gods!!! Geez, I don't know...
So this is why the place is so sacred and why Brahmin priests will practically chase you so you throw their flower into the water. Unfortunately, this has become a commercial venture, and tourists are often wrangled out of lots of cash for something that only costs twenty rupees - a quick blessing, some rice and red paste on your forehead, a flower thrown in to the waters, some Sanskrit prayers repeated after thee. I was well onto the scheme, known as the 'Pushkar passport' as afterwards a red and yellow string is wound around your wrist to show that you've participated in the puja and are now free to roam the streets! Honestly, they used to wait at the bus stops for tourists... I didn't notice this this time, but then again I did come at crazy hot season with not many tourists around in general. But one sunset I gave in to an older priest who assured me I could pay what I wanted, and didn't try to dissuade me from giving only twenty rupees. He must have known that I was an old hand at the Pushkar passport... writing this from Rishikesh, a similar things happened to me two days ago down by the Ganga. this baba has 100 rupees proudly on show on his tray of flower petals and red paste, as if this was the asked price. When I paid him the same price he looked at me sadly, and asked 'only twenty?'. Of course baba! It costs almost nothing for you to draw a line on my forehead and say some ancient words - it is nice however, but twenty rupees will buy you a good dinner at least... sadly, there are so many holy men who are not really who they say they are, and are just after another get rich quick scheme... like most people in India, they are just trying to get along, get ahead and save a bit of capital until they have to pay some baksheesh of their own...
Monday, May 9, 2011
Pushkar the first...
Again, again, I find I'm having to back track and catch up as I write this blog...
This would be my fifth visit to Pushkar - I first visited this lovely pilgrimage town in January 2004, and became friends with a lovely local called Chanu who helped run some jewellery stores with his brothers Raju and North. He invited me back for his cousin-sister's wedding (really his cousin, but like a sister...) in February, so I visited again the following month, met all the family who were all convinced that we were together, particularly as he made me stand with him behind the marriage thrones with our hands blessing the couple, which I later found on was a tradition that already married couples did. Little shit... also, one of his uncles, a particularly cheeky fellow named Papu, got me to bless their grandfather's feet and call him 'Saso-ji' which means grandfather-father in law. Oh, how they all laughed...
And in 2005, I went back for Chanu and North's double arranged marriages to Mona and Jyoti, donned another sari and spent some more wonderful time with the family. Ididn't see them much the following year as when I visited in Feb 2006 I was quite sick... but I sure made up for it this time.
Last time I visited, Chanu and Mona had had a son who had recently died of cot death, so it was quite a sad time. Now, five and a half years later, they have three beautiful daughters who all have their mama's dark and gorgeous eyes. Chanu hasn't changed an inch, except around his belly - he is still the same carefree cheeky soul who punches me in the arm and tries to convince everyone I am his second wife.
Chanu's family is pretty amazing. As I walk through the market there are plenty of family faces to meet and greet, and Chanu doesn't waste time in reintroducing me to the family. There is Papu uncle, with wife Urmilla and son Rishi, who was cute and tiny when I first met him seven years before. There is Sharm uncle, married to Urmilla's sister Madhu... and their daughter Gini. Next door to them live Uncle Nirmal and his beautiful wife Mumta, who hasn't aged an inch since 2004 and is still stunningly beautiful despite her sadness at not being able to birth another child since Aman back in 2002... The fourth room in the dharma sala where they live belongs to Chanu and Mona and their three babu's Puja, Mene and Daisy... I love my ability to communicate with Mona despite her lack of English and my garbled together Hindi... often Chanu will take me there and leave me there to just hangout while he goes back to the shop. One afternoon when I am suffering from Pushkar belly I lie down and sleep with all the girls on the big double bed that the whole family share... it is too hot to do anything else in that 40+degree desert heat...
Seeing how these guys live, like most Indians, makes me realise what luxury of space we have in the West. Here, there is no such thing as personal space really... when I visit Chanu's cousin-sister Neelum, one hell of an educated girl who speaks perfect English and who, like me, has trained as a teacher since our last meeting, has never had her own room and even though she is 25, she sleeps next to her 23 year old brother in the hallway between the family kitchen and their parent's room. And this is just normal for them! Living with their clothes in a suitcase... pulling it out daily to choose something to wear and then tucking it away again... I loved visiting Neelum's family in particular. Education has been important for them, and their two youngest, Neelum and Vijay are doing very well for themselves - primary teaching, and working in a bank respectively. When I visit other family members, they talk of Vijay's bank job in awed tones... and they (Neelum and Vijay) take pride in having enough money to offer me Pepsi when I visit them.Honestly, I've never drunken Pepsi in my life.. but I'm developing quite a taste for it in this sweet-toothed nation I must say!
North's family house is another I spend a lot of time in. His wife Jyoti is incredibly creative, and somehow manages to paint, sew, make soft toys to sell and cook and run a household whilst raising two sons! UNbelievable.. she speaks a few word of English and is able to t\communicate her dream of opening a beauty parlour in a year's time. After she spends an evening adorning my hands with her stunning henna designs,I know she'll be great at whatever she does and hope to go back one day and see her dream realised... She paints my hands with such grace, very swiftly creating flowers and peacock-esque designs all over my left hand before we eat (with our right hands) so she can quickly do the right hand, because by this time it's nearing midnight and I still have to make my way back across town and manage to avoid the mad dog that seems to like running after Westerners with its teeth bared. More importantly however, is the traditional superstition that a woman must not walk out after dark if she has fresh henna on her hands... at first I don't understand why, and try to guess... is it because I might fall down and get it dirty and ruin it? Because the smell of cloves and cinnamon might attract insects or worse?? But it seems that it means that unwelcome spirits might invade my soul, so to combat this problem Jyoti wraps up some salt and mustard seeds in a small twist of newspaper before North leads me out the gate quietly so as not to wake the mad dog in the neighbourhood...we make it home safely, and by morning my henna is bright and red and stunning...
I see my Indian Papa-ji and touch his feet as he holds his hand to my head in tradition.. such a lovely man. I'm saddened by the fact that his daughter Lakshmi has died in a train accident since I last visited... and when I visit Mama-ji later that day, her grief is evident in her strong broad face. Apparently she was in the train with her when she fell down from it... considering that her first husband used to beat her and Lakshmi, it doesn't seem fair that so much suffering should come to one person...
So,most of my time in Pushkar is spent with this wonderful family who fill my heart with content and welcome me in so willingly. I take and print out photos of them and their children as a way of thanking them... and try to communicate in Hindi that I will try my best to be back for Neelum's arranged marriage next February... "Fir milenge... Neelum shardi bahut koshish karungee..." I say, before disappearing into the late afternoon heat to get my night bus to Rishikesh...
This would be my fifth visit to Pushkar - I first visited this lovely pilgrimage town in January 2004, and became friends with a lovely local called Chanu who helped run some jewellery stores with his brothers Raju and North. He invited me back for his cousin-sister's wedding (really his cousin, but like a sister...) in February, so I visited again the following month, met all the family who were all convinced that we were together, particularly as he made me stand with him behind the marriage thrones with our hands blessing the couple, which I later found on was a tradition that already married couples did. Little shit... also, one of his uncles, a particularly cheeky fellow named Papu, got me to bless their grandfather's feet and call him 'Saso-ji' which means grandfather-father in law. Oh, how they all laughed...
And in 2005, I went back for Chanu and North's double arranged marriages to Mona and Jyoti, donned another sari and spent some more wonderful time with the family. Ididn't see them much the following year as when I visited in Feb 2006 I was quite sick... but I sure made up for it this time.
Last time I visited, Chanu and Mona had had a son who had recently died of cot death, so it was quite a sad time. Now, five and a half years later, they have three beautiful daughters who all have their mama's dark and gorgeous eyes. Chanu hasn't changed an inch, except around his belly - he is still the same carefree cheeky soul who punches me in the arm and tries to convince everyone I am his second wife.
Chanu's family is pretty amazing. As I walk through the market there are plenty of family faces to meet and greet, and Chanu doesn't waste time in reintroducing me to the family. There is Papu uncle, with wife Urmilla and son Rishi, who was cute and tiny when I first met him seven years before. There is Sharm uncle, married to Urmilla's sister Madhu... and their daughter Gini. Next door to them live Uncle Nirmal and his beautiful wife Mumta, who hasn't aged an inch since 2004 and is still stunningly beautiful despite her sadness at not being able to birth another child since Aman back in 2002... The fourth room in the dharma sala where they live belongs to Chanu and Mona and their three babu's Puja, Mene and Daisy... I love my ability to communicate with Mona despite her lack of English and my garbled together Hindi... often Chanu will take me there and leave me there to just hangout while he goes back to the shop. One afternoon when I am suffering from Pushkar belly I lie down and sleep with all the girls on the big double bed that the whole family share... it is too hot to do anything else in that 40+degree desert heat...
Seeing how these guys live, like most Indians, makes me realise what luxury of space we have in the West. Here, there is no such thing as personal space really... when I visit Chanu's cousin-sister Neelum, one hell of an educated girl who speaks perfect English and who, like me, has trained as a teacher since our last meeting, has never had her own room and even though she is 25, she sleeps next to her 23 year old brother in the hallway between the family kitchen and their parent's room. And this is just normal for them! Living with their clothes in a suitcase... pulling it out daily to choose something to wear and then tucking it away again... I loved visiting Neelum's family in particular. Education has been important for them, and their two youngest, Neelum and Vijay are doing very well for themselves - primary teaching, and working in a bank respectively. When I visit other family members, they talk of Vijay's bank job in awed tones... and they (Neelum and Vijay) take pride in having enough money to offer me Pepsi when I visit them.Honestly, I've never drunken Pepsi in my life.. but I'm developing quite a taste for it in this sweet-toothed nation I must say!
North's family house is another I spend a lot of time in. His wife Jyoti is incredibly creative, and somehow manages to paint, sew, make soft toys to sell and cook and run a household whilst raising two sons! UNbelievable.. she speaks a few word of English and is able to t\communicate her dream of opening a beauty parlour in a year's time. After she spends an evening adorning my hands with her stunning henna designs,I know she'll be great at whatever she does and hope to go back one day and see her dream realised... She paints my hands with such grace, very swiftly creating flowers and peacock-esque designs all over my left hand before we eat (with our right hands) so she can quickly do the right hand, because by this time it's nearing midnight and I still have to make my way back across town and manage to avoid the mad dog that seems to like running after Westerners with its teeth bared. More importantly however, is the traditional superstition that a woman must not walk out after dark if she has fresh henna on her hands... at first I don't understand why, and try to guess... is it because I might fall down and get it dirty and ruin it? Because the smell of cloves and cinnamon might attract insects or worse?? But it seems that it means that unwelcome spirits might invade my soul, so to combat this problem Jyoti wraps up some salt and mustard seeds in a small twist of newspaper before North leads me out the gate quietly so as not to wake the mad dog in the neighbourhood...we make it home safely, and by morning my henna is bright and red and stunning...
I see my Indian Papa-ji and touch his feet as he holds his hand to my head in tradition.. such a lovely man. I'm saddened by the fact that his daughter Lakshmi has died in a train accident since I last visited... and when I visit Mama-ji later that day, her grief is evident in her strong broad face. Apparently she was in the train with her when she fell down from it... considering that her first husband used to beat her and Lakshmi, it doesn't seem fair that so much suffering should come to one person...
So,most of my time in Pushkar is spent with this wonderful family who fill my heart with content and welcome me in so willingly. I take and print out photos of them and their children as a way of thanking them... and try to communicate in Hindi that I will try my best to be back for Neelum's arranged marriage next February... "Fir milenge... Neelum shardi bahut koshish karungee..." I say, before disappearing into the late afternoon heat to get my night bus to Rishikesh...
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Delhi
The hustle in Pahar Ganj, Delhi's version of Khao San Road,is particularly frustrating. Dozens of Kashmiri men line the streets, their green eyes lining up their prey before they attack, or attempt to charm. I've heard all their lines before... all their tricks. Even been sucked in by a few. Here they are.
"Remember me?" they call, just so you stop and look. This one particularly works for those like me who have been to India many times and hate the fact that we may have walked unknowingly past an old friend. No need to worry: a) it's hard to make good friends out of Pahar Ganj shop owners and b) it's just a trick - they don't know who the hell you are, they're just pretending so that you stop.
"Hello Holland! Germany!" they call, guessing at your nationality... they are well skilled at this, and I often get the two afore-mentioned countries because of my hair colour. Anyone with curly hair would get 'Shalom!', or anyone that looked remotely Japanese or Korean would be followed by the cries of 'Konichiwha!' Sometimes they even recognise my pounamu and call 'Hey Kiwi!' and I have to give them credit for this. I remember years ago actually, I talked to someone about how they recognised countries and they said they looked at their shoes. Go the Birkenstocks - they're a dead giveaway, as well as practical AND stylish. Wow.
Their drawl is unmistakably Kashmiri, and I don't quite know why. Perhaps it's the schools they went to, but it's this accent that really grates me probably becaus of my past experiences. "Do you want to see my shawp? Some nice scarrrrves? Some precious stawns?"
If all else fails, they get angry when you don't turn around. "I only want to talk with you!" "Come back here!" "Why are you so angry?" Well buddy,do you really want me to tell you why? Just piss off and leave me alone! I want to scream, but grit my teeth and move further down the street. Grrrr....
I spend 24 hours only in Delhi, mostly recovering from my disastrous train journey that went from a proposed 12 to 26 hours in the heat! Urgh... thank goodness I'm not moving around much so I don't need to endure too many more of these... and maybe I'll splash out and go A/C next time too... my last two journeys I have been surrounded by rather unfriendly groups of men. I suppose this is better than over-eager boys and having to field off questions about my marriage status, so I should be content really.
One not-so-nice incident occurs as I'm leaving Delhi for my bus stand in old Delhi to get my Pushkar overnight bus. My rickshaw driver and I battle over a price and finally settle on 140 rupees, which is way down from his initial ridiculous opening price of 250, but well above the normal 100 rupee cost. Oh well, I sigh and settle into my seat... until I hear him muttering something under his breath as he accidentally enters a police zone and tries to change lanes at the same time as switching on his taxi meter (I must remember to insist they use these from now on...). They see him anyway, and one strides over to swiftly beat him across the face as I'm sitting in the back seat. I cry out just out of instinct and sympathy, as my driver is cowering in his seat like a child, but they ignore me and drag him away for questioning. I'm wondering what the hell to do, but within minutes he is back rubbing his jaw and we leave again without many words. It's a shame as we had actually been having a nice conversation and I was learning a few new Hindi words even, but what to do. When we stop, I wonder where we are and he points out my bus stop before I burst into a 'Is THIS all?? You said this was a long journey" etc etc. He responds "You don't pay anything, I am very bad man." to which I offer him 100 rupees instead of 140 but he shakes his head. Oh well, I think, and drag my pack and guitar out of the back before going to seek out a place to sit and wait. Five minutes later however, he is at my side with his hand outstretched, apparently changing his mind about the free ride. Funny. Maybe he decided he didn't have such bad karma after all... I roll my eyes and pay him 100 rupees, not even too surprised. There's no such thing as a free ride in this town...
"Remember me?" they call, just so you stop and look. This one particularly works for those like me who have been to India many times and hate the fact that we may have walked unknowingly past an old friend. No need to worry: a) it's hard to make good friends out of Pahar Ganj shop owners and b) it's just a trick - they don't know who the hell you are, they're just pretending so that you stop.
"Hello Holland! Germany!" they call, guessing at your nationality... they are well skilled at this, and I often get the two afore-mentioned countries because of my hair colour. Anyone with curly hair would get 'Shalom!', or anyone that looked remotely Japanese or Korean would be followed by the cries of 'Konichiwha!' Sometimes they even recognise my pounamu and call 'Hey Kiwi!' and I have to give them credit for this. I remember years ago actually, I talked to someone about how they recognised countries and they said they looked at their shoes. Go the Birkenstocks - they're a dead giveaway, as well as practical AND stylish. Wow.
Their drawl is unmistakably Kashmiri, and I don't quite know why. Perhaps it's the schools they went to, but it's this accent that really grates me probably becaus of my past experiences. "Do you want to see my shawp? Some nice scarrrrves? Some precious stawns?"
If all else fails, they get angry when you don't turn around. "I only want to talk with you!" "Come back here!" "Why are you so angry?" Well buddy,do you really want me to tell you why? Just piss off and leave me alone! I want to scream, but grit my teeth and move further down the street. Grrrr....
I spend 24 hours only in Delhi, mostly recovering from my disastrous train journey that went from a proposed 12 to 26 hours in the heat! Urgh... thank goodness I'm not moving around much so I don't need to endure too many more of these... and maybe I'll splash out and go A/C next time too... my last two journeys I have been surrounded by rather unfriendly groups of men. I suppose this is better than over-eager boys and having to field off questions about my marriage status, so I should be content really.
One not-so-nice incident occurs as I'm leaving Delhi for my bus stand in old Delhi to get my Pushkar overnight bus. My rickshaw driver and I battle over a price and finally settle on 140 rupees, which is way down from his initial ridiculous opening price of 250, but well above the normal 100 rupee cost. Oh well, I sigh and settle into my seat... until I hear him muttering something under his breath as he accidentally enters a police zone and tries to change lanes at the same time as switching on his taxi meter (I must remember to insist they use these from now on...). They see him anyway, and one strides over to swiftly beat him across the face as I'm sitting in the back seat. I cry out just out of instinct and sympathy, as my driver is cowering in his seat like a child, but they ignore me and drag him away for questioning. I'm wondering what the hell to do, but within minutes he is back rubbing his jaw and we leave again without many words. It's a shame as we had actually been having a nice conversation and I was learning a few new Hindi words even, but what to do. When we stop, I wonder where we are and he points out my bus stop before I burst into a 'Is THIS all?? You said this was a long journey" etc etc. He responds "You don't pay anything, I am very bad man." to which I offer him 100 rupees instead of 140 but he shakes his head. Oh well, I think, and drag my pack and guitar out of the back before going to seek out a place to sit and wait. Five minutes later however, he is at my side with his hand outstretched, apparently changing his mind about the free ride. Funny. Maybe he decided he didn't have such bad karma after all... I roll my eyes and pay him 100 rupees, not even too surprised. There's no such thing as a free ride in this town...
Sunday, May 1, 2011
This one's been a long time coming...
Kya hua Sharon? Kya hua??
If you listen carefully, you can hear this phrase 'Kya Hua' about every thirty seconds in India - it's a literal translation of 'What happened?'. And, yes, well, I thought I was going so well with my blog, but I guess it just fell flat for a while. Having too much fun possibly? How terrible. Anyway here I am, and I am going to try to catch up somewhat.
Varanasi: three weeks in the madhouse. HOT, dirty - the dirtiest place I've ever been if I'm honest about it. Shiva's city and a pretty intense place to kick about if you don't keep your wits about you. The first time I went, seven years before, I got robbed on the train trying to leave. Thankfully, all visits since have been void of such drama.
I loved it, most of the time. The mad twisty alleyways, with incense burning on every street corner and devotional music blasting out of tinny speakers from the 1970's. I managed to avoid the cow shit most of the time, except once, and even then people told me it was good for my skin and good luck anyway, because cows are so sacred, and I should go into the Ganga and take a bath. No thanks - I know that devout Hindus believe that the toxicity of that sump means nothing in the face of the all devotional healing energy that comes off that body of water, and I sure believe in her power as well, just I didn't want to enter it myself. That's all.
Many a happy time was spent in my friend Munna's shop beneath his amazing air conditioning system (BLESS his heart) drinking chai and watching IPL cricket on his laptop, and not practising singing the bhajans I'd learnt on the harmonium like I should have been doing after paying for lessons most days. Oh well. Most days I'd also sit on the verandah with Narvada, a very sick woman who used to run my guesthouse with her husband before she got sick. In India it's very rare to meet local women, as they are confined to the house most of the time and rarely speak English, but Narvada was an exception. A former school teacher and a Brahmin who defied her caste and family by choosing a love marriage rather than letting her parents arrange one for her, she alienated herself from her family by marrying 'beneath' her and they don't talk to her still - even though they know how sick she is. Truth is, she's dying and can only breathe through an oxygen machine. The first day I met her, I bawled my eyes out afterwards in the privacy of my room and, when it came time to navigate my way to work at Kutumb shelter, I cried again behind the makeshift privacy of my sunglasses... but what to do? This is life, and this is her lot - unfair as it may be. 28 years old with two small (beautiful) children who climbed all over me, leapt about the room to the soundtrack of my guitar and begged me to buy them 'Maggi, Maggi!'. They LOVE Maggi noodles of all things - masala flavour, of course. They are mad for them, as well as chocolate which I often bought them, ignoring my inner morality and concern for their dental hygiene. They're only young once...
On my last day, Narvada and husband Goli made kitchori for me - I LOVE kitchori and often make it in New Zealand but this was the real deal. Simple food - dal, rice and tomato, boiled up with mild spices. Very good for the stomach, which was a good thing I'd been housebound, possibly with giardia, the previous night and was concerned for my upcoming overnight train journey. SO kitchori was a good way to leave. We ate with our hands and with fresh tomato papad (pappadoms) as the children danced around us, waiting for us to finish so they could eat their noodles...
I extended my ticket one time already for the famous annual music festival at the beautiful Sankat Mochan mandir, or Hanuman temple. Every year world famous Hindustani musicians travel from all over India to play at this free 5 night festival. Because of the heat, the festival starts every night at 8pm and goes all night until around 6 am. It was established to celebrate the birth of Hanuman so they can't change the time to coincide with winter. Never mind.
I saw some incredible musicians here over the five days, although some Varanasi bacteria debilitated me on my last night unfortunately so I missed Rahul Sharma, the santoor player I really wanted to see. I fell in love with the santoor actually, this 90 plus stringed instrument which simply sounds like it was built from stardust and moonshine. Pandit Bhajan Sopori played with his son Abhay Sopori on the third night, the former being one of the most famous santoorists in the world, and wow.. what an honour to see them. I don't know much about the technical side of Hindustani music, but it does seem to leave a lot of room open for improvisation, and seeing these players jam along with tabla players and other accompaniment was really something else... all words pale in the face of these nights, sitting cross legged in this stunningly beautiful old white marble temple with hundreds of others, and lying down to sleep whenever the eyes got too heavy... I loved that I could just curl into a ball on the communal blankets that covered the marble temple floor, and it could be so safe to do so - I'd try to cover my blonde hair with a scarf, but with my white feet conspiciously sticking out of my Ali Baba trousers, the truth was obvious... However, I didn't need to hide from the fact that I was a lone female as this was a safe place to be... nothing could harm me in the monkey temple, except perhaps the monkeys. Vicious creatures. As I was leaving at dawn after my first all-nighter there was a stampede of them on the tin roof above, which seemed to go on and on... and as I travelled home in the early morning light I could see them swinging from trees and rooftops and eying us with their beady eyes... not a species I wish to get too close to.
Every day at dawn I would drag my aching body down the temple steps to negotiate a rickshaw back to my guesthouse. My favourite local restaurant was usually just opening for breakfast, so I'd throw down some butter jam toast between yawns and then stumble back 'home' to sleep until lunchtime...
I did manage to leave Varanasi however, as I'm now here in beautiful Pushkar... however, this is enough for one day.... I must escape and eat before the desert sun gets too much...
Until next time...
If you listen carefully, you can hear this phrase 'Kya Hua' about every thirty seconds in India - it's a literal translation of 'What happened?'. And, yes, well, I thought I was going so well with my blog, but I guess it just fell flat for a while. Having too much fun possibly? How terrible. Anyway here I am, and I am going to try to catch up somewhat.
Varanasi: three weeks in the madhouse. HOT, dirty - the dirtiest place I've ever been if I'm honest about it. Shiva's city and a pretty intense place to kick about if you don't keep your wits about you. The first time I went, seven years before, I got robbed on the train trying to leave. Thankfully, all visits since have been void of such drama.
I loved it, most of the time. The mad twisty alleyways, with incense burning on every street corner and devotional music blasting out of tinny speakers from the 1970's. I managed to avoid the cow shit most of the time, except once, and even then people told me it was good for my skin and good luck anyway, because cows are so sacred, and I should go into the Ganga and take a bath. No thanks - I know that devout Hindus believe that the toxicity of that sump means nothing in the face of the all devotional healing energy that comes off that body of water, and I sure believe in her power as well, just I didn't want to enter it myself. That's all.
Many a happy time was spent in my friend Munna's shop beneath his amazing air conditioning system (BLESS his heart) drinking chai and watching IPL cricket on his laptop, and not practising singing the bhajans I'd learnt on the harmonium like I should have been doing after paying for lessons most days. Oh well. Most days I'd also sit on the verandah with Narvada, a very sick woman who used to run my guesthouse with her husband before she got sick. In India it's very rare to meet local women, as they are confined to the house most of the time and rarely speak English, but Narvada was an exception. A former school teacher and a Brahmin who defied her caste and family by choosing a love marriage rather than letting her parents arrange one for her, she alienated herself from her family by marrying 'beneath' her and they don't talk to her still - even though they know how sick she is. Truth is, she's dying and can only breathe through an oxygen machine. The first day I met her, I bawled my eyes out afterwards in the privacy of my room and, when it came time to navigate my way to work at Kutumb shelter, I cried again behind the makeshift privacy of my sunglasses... but what to do? This is life, and this is her lot - unfair as it may be. 28 years old with two small (beautiful) children who climbed all over me, leapt about the room to the soundtrack of my guitar and begged me to buy them 'Maggi, Maggi!'. They LOVE Maggi noodles of all things - masala flavour, of course. They are mad for them, as well as chocolate which I often bought them, ignoring my inner morality and concern for their dental hygiene. They're only young once...
On my last day, Narvada and husband Goli made kitchori for me - I LOVE kitchori and often make it in New Zealand but this was the real deal. Simple food - dal, rice and tomato, boiled up with mild spices. Very good for the stomach, which was a good thing I'd been housebound, possibly with giardia, the previous night and was concerned for my upcoming overnight train journey. SO kitchori was a good way to leave. We ate with our hands and with fresh tomato papad (pappadoms) as the children danced around us, waiting for us to finish so they could eat their noodles...
I extended my ticket one time already for the famous annual music festival at the beautiful Sankat Mochan mandir, or Hanuman temple. Every year world famous Hindustani musicians travel from all over India to play at this free 5 night festival. Because of the heat, the festival starts every night at 8pm and goes all night until around 6 am. It was established to celebrate the birth of Hanuman so they can't change the time to coincide with winter. Never mind.
I saw some incredible musicians here over the five days, although some Varanasi bacteria debilitated me on my last night unfortunately so I missed Rahul Sharma, the santoor player I really wanted to see. I fell in love with the santoor actually, this 90 plus stringed instrument which simply sounds like it was built from stardust and moonshine. Pandit Bhajan Sopori played with his son Abhay Sopori on the third night, the former being one of the most famous santoorists in the world, and wow.. what an honour to see them. I don't know much about the technical side of Hindustani music, but it does seem to leave a lot of room open for improvisation, and seeing these players jam along with tabla players and other accompaniment was really something else... all words pale in the face of these nights, sitting cross legged in this stunningly beautiful old white marble temple with hundreds of others, and lying down to sleep whenever the eyes got too heavy... I loved that I could just curl into a ball on the communal blankets that covered the marble temple floor, and it could be so safe to do so - I'd try to cover my blonde hair with a scarf, but with my white feet conspiciously sticking out of my Ali Baba trousers, the truth was obvious... However, I didn't need to hide from the fact that I was a lone female as this was a safe place to be... nothing could harm me in the monkey temple, except perhaps the monkeys. Vicious creatures. As I was leaving at dawn after my first all-nighter there was a stampede of them on the tin roof above, which seemed to go on and on... and as I travelled home in the early morning light I could see them swinging from trees and rooftops and eying us with their beady eyes... not a species I wish to get too close to.
Every day at dawn I would drag my aching body down the temple steps to negotiate a rickshaw back to my guesthouse. My favourite local restaurant was usually just opening for breakfast, so I'd throw down some butter jam toast between yawns and then stumble back 'home' to sleep until lunchtime...
I did manage to leave Varanasi however, as I'm now here in beautiful Pushkar... however, this is enough for one day.... I must escape and eat before the desert sun gets too much...
Until next time...
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