Previous Travelogues Travelogue VIII, Part 2 Travelogue VIII, Part 3 Travelogue VIII - Part 1 Northern India: Delhi to Varanasi You Can Chop My Head Off (December 2006 - January 2007) India has held an exotic appeal for me ever since I was a child hearing my father's outlandish stories of his mythical trips to "Injah." For that is where he learned to lay decorated eggs for our Easter baskets. Even after I was old enough to know this was just a clever trick, it still seemed like it would be possible to do such things in "Injah." And now, after our first month in Northern India, I am even more convinced that such things are entirely possible in this land of snake charmers and knife eaters, and barefoot crushed glass walkers, beings I've now seen with my own eyes. Lords Krishna (l) & Ganesh (r) I find I have no adequate words to describe things and events that are so uniquely Indian. But words are all I have, and if this account seems a bit fantastical, then blame it on my storytelling father, the rat. In Hindu legend, rats (kabas) are the incarnation of storytellers and highly revered. A tiny rat / kaba is the unlikely mount of elephant-headed, human-bodied, pot-bellied Lord Ganesh, the 4-armed remover of all obstacles. He's a minor deity but his vivid pink, green and yellow image is everywhere on posters, paintings and sculptures that attest to his popularity. The omnipresence in everyday life of similar Hindu images has been quite a surprise to me. People here wear their religious hearts, not on their sleeves, but on their foreheads. Many women wear red or brown adhesive felt "tikka" dots between their eyebrows. And many men paint white rice powder and ochre "tilaks" on foreheads in a variety of broad lines and dots. The chalky powders are sold in 3' towers in stalls that line the alleyways to the temples, ready for purchase for use on faces as well as floors, doors, posts, elephants, tractors, and the ghee-greased orange bas relief images of the deities found in numerous nooks and crannies around the towns. We flew into Delhi, India's teeming capitol, from Bangkok on Dec 16. It took almost half the day to figure out how to get out of the airport and purchase tickets for a train north. We kept finding ourselves outside the building and having to pay to get back in. In other parts of Asia, purchasing a train ticket is a very simple act, but one that is elevated to a high art form and contact sport here in India. Tickets are purchased in any number of places, depending on the compartment class and the number of hours left before the train is scheduled to leave. Before it got too cold in the north, we wanted to visit Dharamsala, in the northwest, the home-in-exile of the Tibetan Buddhist community, led there by the Dalai Lama after communist China's 1949 invasion and take-over. About 3000 Tibetans each year flee the continuing human rights abuses there and escape under harsh conditions to northern India. They cross the imposing Himalayas on foot and as we looked out our balcony through the thick winter haze of cooking and trash fires, we imagined them trudging through the snowy fields that spill over the dramatic peaks northeast of us. With 1 billion inhabitants and over 3000 years of civilization, there's just so much of India: so much history, geography and religion; so many people, vendors, hawkers and beggars; so many cows, horses, goats, dogs, pigs, elephants, camels, and monkeys; so many saris, turbans, temples and deities; so many odors, chants, chimes and horns; so much filth. Just negotiating the streets, it took a great deal of my energy to keep my eyes squinted not to see too much; to keep my nose pinched not to smell too much; to keep my ears squinched not to hear too much; to keep my stomach clenched not to vomit from too many nauseating inputs; to keep my heart taut not to feel too much and faint. But breathing deeply is this country's traditional yogic and meditational way of staying centered and in the moment. I wanted to be more in control of myself, but breathing deeply was the last thing I wanted to do. And the moment was already greatly with me; it was escape I craved. Norm & street scene Migwar Wangdu & Lin Still, there was plenty that got through my filtering system, plenty of the color and pagentry of everyday life to be distracted by and enjoy. In Dharamsala, Tibetans, both locals and other western travelers helped us gain a modern perspective on the area. We attended classes on the "Confession Sutra" taught by a Tibetan monk and translated by his Swiss assistant. Unfortunately, the Dalai Lama was not in residence while we were there or he would have conducted the classes. He cheerfully keeps a grueling international travel schedule. We spent an interesting afternoon discussing with first-generation Tibetan-Indian oil painter Migwar Wangdu the challenges of doing modern artwork in an exile community that clings to its centuries-old religious art traditions. He claims that the calming presence in their community of the Dalai Lama helps him render his political work (such as his painted response to the recent Chinese crackdown in Tibet) with peace and compassion. I inwardly pledge to dislike the communist regime for him, in most un-Buddhist-like response. Veronika, a long-time Finnish visitor to Dharamsala, showed us crayon pictures by young Tibetan Buddhist novice monks of their recent torture and escape. These powerful and moving works were the products of the art therapy program provided by the Tibetan government for these young boys. Mr. Sandeep, a 32- year- old entrepreneur from Dharamsala, introduced yet another perspective on modern life in the area. He is the first in his academic family to pursue business and management at college. Ten years ago he bought some remote property north of Dharamsala, on which he had built a nice guest house in anticipation of the tourist boom that has actually come to the area. The locals are benefitting from the cash this brings to the area and many have been able to abandon the toil of their previous agricultural lifestyles on the steep slopes of the Himalayan foothills. They are not eager to maintain their old traditions; it's the tourists who seem to Lin & Mr. Sandeep/Guest House Prayer Flags & Wheels want them to continue their "quaint" rural toil so that they can enjoy seeing the old ways. Unfortunately, some of these "spiritual tourists" have also brought marijuana and methamphetemines into the area, with very negative effects on the local youth. The local police were typically no help: "This is India," was Sandeep's cryptic explanation (but one we are to hear frequently). So Sandeep himself led some of the neighbors in a campaign to keep the area drug-free, or at least out of sight of impressionable youths who eagerly emulate westerners. We admire the take-charge attitude this very responsible family man demonstrates. As the only son, Sandeep at 32 seems much more responsible than many western men who are still just "kids" at his age. He is head of the extended family of his elderly parents, his college-professor wife (who shares the economic and emotional load), and their two young sons. He has no illusions that his guest house business could also support his two sons and their families once they are grown, so he has plans to start other businesses as well. He wants his sons to be academics and not have to endure the economic risks he has. He typifies what another new Indian friend quipped is the source of all Indian problems: "Hurry, curry, and worry." They hurry to keep from being pushed backward literally and figuratively by the teeming crowds, they eat too many spicy and fried foods (India has the world's highest rate of diabetes), and they have plenty to worry about. At the excellent Tibetan museum, we saw elaborate colored sand mandalas, butter sculptures of Tibetan palaces and monasteries, intricate painted "Thangka" scrolls depicting 1300 year old Tibetan medical routines, and scale reproductions of Tibetan temples in carved wood and miles of colored threads. Outside we saw people spinning tiny hand-held prayer wheels and pushing large bronze or paper ones. "Om mane padme hum." May all living beings find peace and happiness. Not knowing that this was to be one of our few truly peaceful times in India, we blithely Haridwar temples on Ganges Into Lion's Belly Temple moved east to the pilgrimage site of Haridwar, where the cold, clear Ganga (Ganges) River thunders out of the mountains to meet the plains on its journey east. It is one of many "auspicious places" where Hindu pilgrims bathe to remove all their sins. This is our first experience of the riotous Hindu public rituals after the individual solemnity of Buddhism. The current is so fast here that bathers, always modestly clad in a sarong or thong (for men), must hold on to sturdy chains bolted to the concrete walls of the diverted section of the river along with thousands of bathers who pray and dip and drink each day. Several colorful temple towers line the banks at the bottom of the ghats - bathing areas along barefeet-only, vast, stadium-like concrete steps. Families come here to pray while rotating in a hand-holding, laughing circle before submersing together. At 6 pm each night, temple priests conduct ceremonies on the ghats that resemble U.S. football cheering sections. On this solstice night, the thread moon shines on the scene as the penitents release to the river fragrant 10" bamboo leaf "boats" full of red roses without their centers, yellow and orange marigold and white mum petals, and a big candle. They inscribe a pretty flickering trail through the current, each holding the goddess only knows what silent prayers of the pilgrims. They probably pray for what we all pray for: health, a decent spouse, a child, prosperity. Everyday is Laundry Day This is how we spend our non-Christmas in Haridwar, wondering about the wishes of others and making a few of our own for ourselves, our families and friends. We feel grateful for coming this far safely in the seventh month of our journey. Just when I find myself rather dubious about the merits of religion as overheated carnival, Hindu-style, I see several examples that contradict this dangerous judgement. Make a statement about India, and the exact opposite will also be true. So, like the yogurt that is served to cool the culinary heat of the chilies, the stately Pawan Dham Temple cooled our visual tempers with its Hall of Mirrors. Entire walls were covered with mirrored and colored glass mosaics of gods, flowers, and fish. My favorite room housed two life-sized, 3-D horses covered in 1" pieces of mirror, drawing a chariot with a god and his consort to a celestial assignation. Worshippers caressed the images with both hands, bowed their heads and muttered their own secret desires to one of Hinduism's reported 330 thousand deities. We continued east to follow the Ganga (Ganges) River by third class sleeper train with 8 people assigned to each section, though by day visitors swelled thoses numbers and vendors loudly hawked their food, tea and noise-maker toys, as if more noise were actually needed. In Varanasi (Banaras), we encountered a city like no other. Mark Twain wasn't exaggerating when he called it "older than history, older than tradition, older than myth, and looking older than all three together." This is where the riots of living rituals and colors mix with the funeral rites at the famous Burning Ghats. Backward Classes We were guided down narrow, dark alleyways to a hotel by a young man who improbably claimed that tall, blonde, Caucasian me reminded him of his dead mother and swore that the hotel would be a good one, "Or you can chop my head off if I lie to you!" At the time this offer seemed rather melodramatic, but I would later consider it when he turned into such a pest, wanting us to visit "his" silk shop and do other things that would result in a healthy commission for him. It is common for guys like this to attach themselves to new visitors and we quickly learned ways of getting rid of them, like saying, "Thank you for your offers of help. If we decide we need something, we know where to find you." Washing Corpse in Ganges At any time of the day or night in Varanasi, one of the oldest cities on earth, a dozen or so funeral pyres consume the white and gold cloth-clad corpses of the honored dead who can afford the high price of being cremated here on the broad concrete steps below our hotel. Menacing over-the-head piles of logs, paid for by weight, line the alleyways and feed the fires that flare into the sky and settle ashes all over the city. We stumble around healthy cows that consume the vegetable peelings that would otherwise add to the mess in the dirt path ways, swearing as we step in dung that hasn't yet been collected, hand-shaped into patties, and splatted on the walls to dry for use as stove fuel. This is where we both develop alarmingly deep, chesty coughs that mingle our breath with that of a billion Indians coughs. A pleasant young man in a long wooden boat rowed us up and down a 5- mile stretch of the Ganges along which dozens of temples and mosques, stalls and bazaars, as well as residences, guest houses and restaurants stagger down the steep hillside to the concrete steps that line the river. Miles of flat, newly-laundered hotel linen and sari fabric sketch blocks of bright color along the ghats to dry. Hopefully the sun will kill all the germs the laundry picked up in the river that is so filthy at this point. We watch in humbled silence while a family performs the ritual dousing of a corpse in the river in preparation for cremation. In alleys so narrow a goat can barely pass a cow, ambling pedestrians and roaring motorcyclists also struggle for space. Their passage through labyrinthine alleyways, steeped in the perpetual shadow of tall old buildings with orange-painted deities in their wall niches, can be interrupted at any time by the sound of trotting feet and the soft chant of several men bearing a bamboo stretcher with corpse on their shoulders. These are members of the former Untouchable caste, now referred to as Dalit. They are joined by the next lowest caste, the Backward and Tribal Classes, in having at least 49% of government jobs, seats in Parliament, and places at university "reserved" for them. This system has had or as the "schedule" or list of rules attached to the 1947 constitution calls them, Scheduled Castes. the effect of making caste even more important than it was at India's independence from England in 1947, after over 350 years of British economic and political dominance. And it has engendered resentment in the upper castes as well, with its apparent reverse discrimination that has created a "creamy layer" of Dalit offspring, many of whom have never suffered the indignities of their parents' generation but still benefit, regardless of ability, from the reservation system. But on the funeral pyre, none of this matters if you have the money to pay for enough wood to do the job. Besides, Hindus believe that they'll be reborn to a higher caste if they live a Deity and Goat righteous life this time around. It is one's fate to be born a Dalit and one's duty to work off the bad karma incurred in a previous life by doing difficult or repulsive manual labor like sweeping the streets, carrying loads of bricks on their heads, or tending corpses at the burning ghats. It seems that people are actually hastening their lucky demise by bathing and even drinking from the Ganges here in Varanasi, where the water is about 2000 times more polluted by human and industrial waste than we allow our swimming pools to be, let alone drinking water. Thirty sewers, now also containing our waste, empty into this septic 5-mile stretch, yet 60,000 people bathe here daily while on pilgrimage. And yet, wouldn't I happily plunge into the liquid filth or Himalayan snowmelt of Mother Ganga myself if I believed that the shocking thrill would wash away all my sins and deliver me to a higher incarnation? Barring that Hindu luxury, I resolve to follow Buddhist precepts and avoid committing new sins. I shall strive not to be attached, hostile or wrong-thinking as I contempt the new year from this darkly colorful side of the world. Over the ghats at every street corner in little niches along the urinated sidewalks Gods locked in their sooty, slimy, smoke-filled temples wait for an airing while in the open streets Priests haggle with hapless Indians selling holy blessings at bargain prices. - Ilsa Dev Pal, Indian poet from Varanasi Previous Travelogues TOP   -    India: Part 2   -    India: Part 3 Travelogue Archives    Home Lin McJunkin Art Glass Mosaics (360) 445-4527 mcjunkin@olypen.com