Sunday, September 27, 2009
On the way to school. . .
The security man is sitting under the overhang reading the paper. He jumps up to “Vannacum” me. I rev up the scooter and head down the early morning street—3 men in orange lungis, one on a drum, one with a flute, and one with a flag are coming down the street, we touch our hearts in greeting. The flame forest tree is dropping the last of the brilliant orange blossoms, causing a carpet of orange on the wet pavement. A crow pulls at the skin of a dead rat. The flower seller is tying jasmine blossoms the size of a marble to strings to sell, sitting on the curb next to the temple—incense smells waft out as I pass by. Men in coats and blankets walk abreast in the street oblivious to the car horns—I veer around them. The bus blares its air horn at me as it vrooms by, splashing a sheet of water over my freshly ironed clothing. Women gather at the faucet to fetch the days water in large brightly colored plastic urns. They carry one on their head and one in each arm, swaying along the street to their home. The woman with the Alaskan husky on a leash is at the tea stand. The well groomed, well behaved dog stands leaning into her leg. On the tree lined avenue there is a coconut stand stacked neatly in a pyramid 6 feet tall. The vendor sleeps on the sidewalk next to it, arms folded over his chest. Bikes with a large cart in front on two wheels, pedal with loads of green bananas, and one carrying boxes that look like televisions. Men gather at the tea stand, drinking from small silver cups and smoking. Always men standing around—the only women I see are working. The oxen stand patiently chewing. One wears a new garland of yellow and red flowers around its neck, its horns painted bright green and blue. The bamboo weavers loom is empty, with bamboo poles leaning next to it—ready for busy hands and chatter. A dog, with balls the size of grapefruit charges out to snarl at passing dogs, defending its territory. They skitter, and he heaves a sigh and stands proud. 3 men pissing on the side of the road. Two children shitting next to the garbage heap—a man brushes his teeth while squatting on the other side. The idol vendors, who live in a black plastic tent on the side of the busy road are just getting up. The mother holding the naked baby and the little girl stretches and rubs her messy hair. The pot holes in the road are full of water, and it is dangerous to hit them, not seeing how deep they are. I pull into the school and take off my helmet—another day to school. All of these sights are now so common to me—like the ride to Friends school, I drive on automatic, taking the sights and smells in without even gasping in surprise.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
back home
I have returned from a cool green, lush and loving summer. Minnesota, Michigan and Montreal each offering gifts of love and laughter and comfort. So much so, that I couldn’t bare to return—to pack or plan or even think of returning to India and adventures with my niece Nicole who was joining me. My heart ached and was heavy when I got on the plane, but lifted as the flight carried me from one reality into another.
We landed in Delhi to find the parking lot under a foot of water, and our faithful driver and new friend, Dillbagh waiting for us. He hustled us into his brand new car and deposited us at a hotel for a short rest before we left Delhi for Agra and the Taj Mahal. We decided to travel by car as we had no definite plans set in front of us, and the heat was grueling. Dillbagh and the driver, Rakshesh, were to spend the next 4 days with us. We traveled in luxury, airconditioning and two knowledgeable guides who entertained us with philosophy, medical advice, religion, and local customs. Dillbagh gave us advise on losing weight, constipation and the helpful medical advise of how to chose the gender of your unborn child—which, apparently is to take some secret capsules 2 months into pregnancy. Nicole and I laughed until we cried, much to the gentlemen’s delight. We were more fortunate at this decision than we knew at the time, because the things we wanted to do turned into different opportunites that we didn’t even know existed.
The drive to Agra in the early morning showed the world waking up. Stone masons carving, camel carts on the move, people walking to the fields, women, always women carrying huge bundles on their heads. Riding in the car allowed us to stop to meet women working in the field, who shyly let us join them. We stopped for lunch and found a young boy with a half dead cobra that he rallied up with a few pokes and notes from his flute. Nicole’s first Indian meal. Roadside stands that no white women had ever frequented, and the mistaken idea that we were with our Indian boyfriends caused considerable stares and discussions.
We arrived at the Taj Mahal in the late morning. There were throngs of people, all Indian to see their national treasure. Entering through an ornate archway my breath caught as I had my first glimpse of the monument. The Taj is built as a mausoleum by the Emperor Shah Jahan for his wife who died in childbirth of their 14th child. The construction began in 1641 of pure white marble inlaid with semi-precious stones and remarkable mosaics. The marble brought from 40 miles away. Truly a wonder of the world of architecture and craftsmanship. Startling, and yes, the Indian people are so proud of it, but my western mind could only think what a waste—how much riches used for this decorative place that serves no one. The Emperors invaded and robbed India of untold wealth, stripped her bare, and then left. Not one school built. Not one hospital or public service of any kind.
We rested that afternoon and when Nicole woke up and looked out the window—there was an elephant! We joined our guides at a place they frequent for an authentic meal. A road side stand with rough wooden benches and table right next to the road. We ate rice and dahl and chapatti. Nicole has already experienced things here that my friends in Chennai would gag at—and all with the eager excitement of a new traveler in India.
In the morning we left early again, to head to Akbar’s palace, perched on top the highest hill. Again, and opulent development which only served his many wives and children, guarded by eunuchs. The courtyards were expansive, circled by detailed carving in granite. Thinking about the amount of work and what they had to work with is mind boggling. We were the only visitors, and we could imagine children running here and playing hide and seek, and women wiling away their days in idleness.
We visited Akbar’s mausoleum—another stunning piece of useless architecture totally inlaid with mother of pearl—sparkling in the sun. People’s devotion was palpable.
There were vendors selling wares. One man was selling garnet stone necklaces. I remembered my aunt Tina wearing a ring with 3 garnet stones. I could see her hands and fingernails, and felt a surge of love for her. I bought it and it inspired me to write her a letter and send it to her after decades of neglect. A gift for my heart. Traveling unearths long forgotten memories—smells, sounds and sights trigger them from the depths of the mind.
We drove in luxury along dry hot roads, with the women carrying large bundles on their heads, and endless streams of goats followed by a fellow dressed in white carrying a stick—often with a white turban—scenes from a movie we had never seen. There was a bird sanctuary along the way, and because we were not on a bus, we could stop. Cars were not allowed in, and there were men who ferried us on their bicycle rickshaw. We sat in covered shade while the old man pedaled our considerable load in the blazing sun. After 40 years of working there he knew where every bird lived and what each call was. We saw baby owlets! And so many songbirds and small water birds—the big ones north on migration from the heat. At the end of the long quiet and beautiful road, we got out to walk. He took us to a place where the fruit bats were nesting—hanging upside down—wings occasionally fluttering—he spooked them up for our delight! They flew over head, and visions of batman were not to imagine. They are the size of large cats and soared over head to land and hang upside down again. Nicole was as delighted as a child on Christmas morning. She was more fun to watch than the bats.
On to Jaipur!! Visions of my favorite jewelry dazzeled in my mind. I only have 5 rings to wear daily, and was scheming of another 5—with earrings and presents glittering next to them. I was planning on all of the things I could buy for family and friends—JAIPUR!!! The shopping mecca of the world! We arrived late afternoon and Dillbagh immediately took us to a shop that only Indians shop at (and he gets a commission). But it was grand, and Nicole bought several things to take home—a jewelry store (not my price) but Nic bought her mom some stunning earrings—and other shops, until we could ditch Dillbagh and were dropped off in front of the Palace of the Winds. There were far more hawkers than shoppers,, and crossing the street made our hearts beat with terror! We just wandered—trying to get away from the people grabbing at us to come into their shops. We found little fried lentil balls from a street vendor, which we wolfed down—delicious! We bought only a few things—our energy waning, and decided to return to our run down musty hotel, where only Indians stay—of course, we are so hearty. We looked at our loot and recanted the day. Traveling with a dear friend is such a treasure—someone to hear the minutia and really be interested. We showered and slept under a rattley fan. When we woke up, I was pumped to SHOP!! We came out to meet Dillbagh sitting on the couch in the lobby—“So sad. The Mattahani died! Everything closed!”“EVERYTHING??””“Yes. She was so very loved and died in the middle of the night.” And indeed everything in Jaipur was closed—even tea stands. She was 93 and was once voted one of the top ten beautiful women by vogue magazine. She was gorgeous—Rita Hayward beautiful. And she actually did things to improve people’s lives. She worked for education for the girls in Jaipur—and living conditions. People loved her! We got out of town, with my purse still full, but empty bags. How fortunate that was.
We went to the Ajmer Palace and fort, and rode elephants up to the top—another first! They were gaily painted and wore festive cloths. They kind of rock side to side as they made their way up the hairpin curves to the top. It was such fun to see the ones coming down and other tourists sitting on top. The view breath taking—and the ancient fort was enormous, the walls made of rock rolling out to the edge of sight. Part of it still inhabited, and some in ruins 6 hundred years old. At the top of the hill we entered the courtyard to find Dillbagh waiting for us with his smiling face beaming at us. “So lucky,na? Here I am waiting for you!” And we did feel so lucky to have him there for us.
“A new plan!” he jabbered, “We will go to Sariska Animal preserve! Maybe we see a tiger!” And happily we headed out again. The land going east this time was very rugged terrain—scrub trees and no houses. Ridiculous vehicles jury-rigged from tractors, trucks and trailers. WE saw many pilgrims carrying water jars hanging on the ends of sticks they carried across their shoulders, and there were people along the way feeding them. We began to realize that there were many flat bed trailers and trucks carrying large crowds of people heading the way we were. The people were thin and wirey and more packed together than sardines in a can. “AHHH! Sariska! No promise of a tiger you know—only luck, but we are lucky!” WE pulled into a large lodge with beautiful gardens, but---no cars. Lucky! We went inside, and it felt like the old British movies of India. A sign read ASK FOR DOCTOR- TAXI- OR GYPSY, which cracked Nicole and I up. It was quiet. In fact, it was closed. Someone had poached a tiger, and they were closed until Monday. We really cracked up then! Laughed our heads off at the absurdity of it, and bundled back into the car. “No problem! I know a village near by—we’ll eat there, and a temple festival that I took my mother to every year.” We didn’t feel troubled, but just wondered what window of opportunity this would open for us.
The trucks kept coming, and buses all heading to the festival. We stopped in the nearest town, and gawked at the people gawking at us. Wild dramatic people, women in such rich garb and bangles—cars with 20 people in them, children who screamed when we went near them—old men in dhotis (ankle length cloths pulled up between the legs)and kurtas (long simple shirts) and white turbans. The women in long skirts, mid-driff shirts and long dupatas (scarves) worn over their heads, and sometimes pulled over their faces. They had rings in their noses and bangles up to their elbows. Crowds gathered to look at us, and we were the first white person many had ever seen. Men and women totally separate. We ate at the local “café” chapatti and a thin dahl and vegetables and then took tons of pictures, to everyone’s delight. They would laugh and scream at their images. And on—to the festival. We parked and walked down a dusty road lined with people selling icons, jewels, barettes, mirrors, holy cards, cigarettes. Dillbagh insisted Nicole and I buy necklaces that married women wear—for our husbands sake and we walked on. People singing and 3 men and a boy laying in the dirt scootching their way to the temple—first on their stomachs, then on their backs, never walking. “They may do this for 15-20 kilometers! IT is for success in business!” Dillbagh explained as though that made a lick of sense to us. There were throngs of people, and drumming and chanting and balloons and toys—festival is really a festival here. People picnicking dand eating ice cream and corn –just like the state fair. Nicole was surrounded by hoards of young men wanting to shake her hand and have her take their picture as they made macho poses. Holy men bowed to us and everyone welcomed us. It felt the farthest I had ever been away from the familiar in India—nothing I had ever seen or felt…
The temple was crammed full, and the temperature over 100 degrees—lots of smoke and incense and people washing the idols and each other, and people praying and yelling and laying on the floor prostrate. Kids running and blowing bubbles, and women gathered, huddled sharing news with those not often seen. Dillbagh got all freaked out that he couldn’t see Nicole and started ordering us around—his feet were burning without shoes on the hot cement. We worked our way out to our sandles and back through the crowd. We stopped to listen to a group of women singing and Nicole joined them. A haunting movie in my head. I hated to go—it was so rich, so beautiful, so wild.
We decided to zip back to Delhi to catch a flight that same night to Chennai—the days were so long and full and rich—a true time warp in many ways. Dillbagh took us to his home to see his family and get my bags and dropped us at the airport—we were dazed and amazed, and I was heading. . .home.
We landed in Delhi to find the parking lot under a foot of water, and our faithful driver and new friend, Dillbagh waiting for us. He hustled us into his brand new car and deposited us at a hotel for a short rest before we left Delhi for Agra and the Taj Mahal. We decided to travel by car as we had no definite plans set in front of us, and the heat was grueling. Dillbagh and the driver, Rakshesh, were to spend the next 4 days with us. We traveled in luxury, airconditioning and two knowledgeable guides who entertained us with philosophy, medical advice, religion, and local customs. Dillbagh gave us advise on losing weight, constipation and the helpful medical advise of how to chose the gender of your unborn child—which, apparently is to take some secret capsules 2 months into pregnancy. Nicole and I laughed until we cried, much to the gentlemen’s delight. We were more fortunate at this decision than we knew at the time, because the things we wanted to do turned into different opportunites that we didn’t even know existed.
The drive to Agra in the early morning showed the world waking up. Stone masons carving, camel carts on the move, people walking to the fields, women, always women carrying huge bundles on their heads. Riding in the car allowed us to stop to meet women working in the field, who shyly let us join them. We stopped for lunch and found a young boy with a half dead cobra that he rallied up with a few pokes and notes from his flute. Nicole’s first Indian meal. Roadside stands that no white women had ever frequented, and the mistaken idea that we were with our Indian boyfriends caused considerable stares and discussions.
We arrived at the Taj Mahal in the late morning. There were throngs of people, all Indian to see their national treasure. Entering through an ornate archway my breath caught as I had my first glimpse of the monument. The Taj is built as a mausoleum by the Emperor Shah Jahan for his wife who died in childbirth of their 14th child. The construction began in 1641 of pure white marble inlaid with semi-precious stones and remarkable mosaics. The marble brought from 40 miles away. Truly a wonder of the world of architecture and craftsmanship. Startling, and yes, the Indian people are so proud of it, but my western mind could only think what a waste—how much riches used for this decorative place that serves no one. The Emperors invaded and robbed India of untold wealth, stripped her bare, and then left. Not one school built. Not one hospital or public service of any kind.
We rested that afternoon and when Nicole woke up and looked out the window—there was an elephant! We joined our guides at a place they frequent for an authentic meal. A road side stand with rough wooden benches and table right next to the road. We ate rice and dahl and chapatti. Nicole has already experienced things here that my friends in Chennai would gag at—and all with the eager excitement of a new traveler in India.
In the morning we left early again, to head to Akbar’s palace, perched on top the highest hill. Again, and opulent development which only served his many wives and children, guarded by eunuchs. The courtyards were expansive, circled by detailed carving in granite. Thinking about the amount of work and what they had to work with is mind boggling. We were the only visitors, and we could imagine children running here and playing hide and seek, and women wiling away their days in idleness.
We visited Akbar’s mausoleum—another stunning piece of useless architecture totally inlaid with mother of pearl—sparkling in the sun. People’s devotion was palpable.
There were vendors selling wares. One man was selling garnet stone necklaces. I remembered my aunt Tina wearing a ring with 3 garnet stones. I could see her hands and fingernails, and felt a surge of love for her. I bought it and it inspired me to write her a letter and send it to her after decades of neglect. A gift for my heart. Traveling unearths long forgotten memories—smells, sounds and sights trigger them from the depths of the mind.
We drove in luxury along dry hot roads, with the women carrying large bundles on their heads, and endless streams of goats followed by a fellow dressed in white carrying a stick—often with a white turban—scenes from a movie we had never seen. There was a bird sanctuary along the way, and because we were not on a bus, we could stop. Cars were not allowed in, and there were men who ferried us on their bicycle rickshaw. We sat in covered shade while the old man pedaled our considerable load in the blazing sun. After 40 years of working there he knew where every bird lived and what each call was. We saw baby owlets! And so many songbirds and small water birds—the big ones north on migration from the heat. At the end of the long quiet and beautiful road, we got out to walk. He took us to a place where the fruit bats were nesting—hanging upside down—wings occasionally fluttering—he spooked them up for our delight! They flew over head, and visions of batman were not to imagine. They are the size of large cats and soared over head to land and hang upside down again. Nicole was as delighted as a child on Christmas morning. She was more fun to watch than the bats.
On to Jaipur!! Visions of my favorite jewelry dazzeled in my mind. I only have 5 rings to wear daily, and was scheming of another 5—with earrings and presents glittering next to them. I was planning on all of the things I could buy for family and friends—JAIPUR!!! The shopping mecca of the world! We arrived late afternoon and Dillbagh immediately took us to a shop that only Indians shop at (and he gets a commission). But it was grand, and Nicole bought several things to take home—a jewelry store (not my price) but Nic bought her mom some stunning earrings—and other shops, until we could ditch Dillbagh and were dropped off in front of the Palace of the Winds. There were far more hawkers than shoppers,, and crossing the street made our hearts beat with terror! We just wandered—trying to get away from the people grabbing at us to come into their shops. We found little fried lentil balls from a street vendor, which we wolfed down—delicious! We bought only a few things—our energy waning, and decided to return to our run down musty hotel, where only Indians stay—of course, we are so hearty. We looked at our loot and recanted the day. Traveling with a dear friend is such a treasure—someone to hear the minutia and really be interested. We showered and slept under a rattley fan. When we woke up, I was pumped to SHOP!! We came out to meet Dillbagh sitting on the couch in the lobby—“So sad. The Mattahani died! Everything closed!”“EVERYTHING??””“Yes. She was so very loved and died in the middle of the night.” And indeed everything in Jaipur was closed—even tea stands. She was 93 and was once voted one of the top ten beautiful women by vogue magazine. She was gorgeous—Rita Hayward beautiful. And she actually did things to improve people’s lives. She worked for education for the girls in Jaipur—and living conditions. People loved her! We got out of town, with my purse still full, but empty bags. How fortunate that was.
We went to the Ajmer Palace and fort, and rode elephants up to the top—another first! They were gaily painted and wore festive cloths. They kind of rock side to side as they made their way up the hairpin curves to the top. It was such fun to see the ones coming down and other tourists sitting on top. The view breath taking—and the ancient fort was enormous, the walls made of rock rolling out to the edge of sight. Part of it still inhabited, and some in ruins 6 hundred years old. At the top of the hill we entered the courtyard to find Dillbagh waiting for us with his smiling face beaming at us. “So lucky,na? Here I am waiting for you!” And we did feel so lucky to have him there for us.
“A new plan!” he jabbered, “We will go to Sariska Animal preserve! Maybe we see a tiger!” And happily we headed out again. The land going east this time was very rugged terrain—scrub trees and no houses. Ridiculous vehicles jury-rigged from tractors, trucks and trailers. WE saw many pilgrims carrying water jars hanging on the ends of sticks they carried across their shoulders, and there were people along the way feeding them. We began to realize that there were many flat bed trailers and trucks carrying large crowds of people heading the way we were. The people were thin and wirey and more packed together than sardines in a can. “AHHH! Sariska! No promise of a tiger you know—only luck, but we are lucky!” WE pulled into a large lodge with beautiful gardens, but---no cars. Lucky! We went inside, and it felt like the old British movies of India. A sign read ASK FOR DOCTOR- TAXI- OR GYPSY, which cracked Nicole and I up. It was quiet. In fact, it was closed. Someone had poached a tiger, and they were closed until Monday. We really cracked up then! Laughed our heads off at the absurdity of it, and bundled back into the car. “No problem! I know a village near by—we’ll eat there, and a temple festival that I took my mother to every year.” We didn’t feel troubled, but just wondered what window of opportunity this would open for us.
The trucks kept coming, and buses all heading to the festival. We stopped in the nearest town, and gawked at the people gawking at us. Wild dramatic people, women in such rich garb and bangles—cars with 20 people in them, children who screamed when we went near them—old men in dhotis (ankle length cloths pulled up between the legs)and kurtas (long simple shirts) and white turbans. The women in long skirts, mid-driff shirts and long dupatas (scarves) worn over their heads, and sometimes pulled over their faces. They had rings in their noses and bangles up to their elbows. Crowds gathered to look at us, and we were the first white person many had ever seen. Men and women totally separate. We ate at the local “café” chapatti and a thin dahl and vegetables and then took tons of pictures, to everyone’s delight. They would laugh and scream at their images. And on—to the festival. We parked and walked down a dusty road lined with people selling icons, jewels, barettes, mirrors, holy cards, cigarettes. Dillbagh insisted Nicole and I buy necklaces that married women wear—for our husbands sake and we walked on. People singing and 3 men and a boy laying in the dirt scootching their way to the temple—first on their stomachs, then on their backs, never walking. “They may do this for 15-20 kilometers! IT is for success in business!” Dillbagh explained as though that made a lick of sense to us. There were throngs of people, and drumming and chanting and balloons and toys—festival is really a festival here. People picnicking dand eating ice cream and corn –just like the state fair. Nicole was surrounded by hoards of young men wanting to shake her hand and have her take their picture as they made macho poses. Holy men bowed to us and everyone welcomed us. It felt the farthest I had ever been away from the familiar in India—nothing I had ever seen or felt…
The temple was crammed full, and the temperature over 100 degrees—lots of smoke and incense and people washing the idols and each other, and people praying and yelling and laying on the floor prostrate. Kids running and blowing bubbles, and women gathered, huddled sharing news with those not often seen. Dillbagh got all freaked out that he couldn’t see Nicole and started ordering us around—his feet were burning without shoes on the hot cement. We worked our way out to our sandles and back through the crowd. We stopped to listen to a group of women singing and Nicole joined them. A haunting movie in my head. I hated to go—it was so rich, so beautiful, so wild.
We decided to zip back to Delhi to catch a flight that same night to Chennai—the days were so long and full and rich—a true time warp in many ways. Dillbagh took us to his home to see his family and get my bags and dropped us at the airport—we were dazed and amazed, and I was heading. . .home.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)