Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Eclipse
Superstitions prevented us from eating or engaging in other activities when this happened in Jodhpur:
(we took this with a lot of experimentation from the roof of our guesthouse) (thanks to Ben for the pic)
(we took this with a lot of experimentation from the roof of our guesthouse) (thanks to Ben for the pic)
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Mt. Abu
Made a trip to Mt. Abu last weekend.
Being a popular location for Gujarati tourists, it was nice to hear the language spoken more than Hindi. I took an overnight sleeper bus there, flying through the night with periodic rains and distant thunderclaps and lightning. A nice ride, listening to music along the way, you adjust to the bumpiness and can sleep peacefully. Though, of course, the cabin is about 6 inches shorter than my height-- but an easily adjustable situation. On the height issue, India 21 - Soham 0.
Get there. sleep in the decent room for a few hours and just hang around. Numerous hotels make up the town, and it seemed best to avoid the major attractions like the lake and just wander around the outskirts. I made my way to sunset point, went off the beaten path and found a pretty beautiful secluded spot. There the mist climbed over the mountains and monkeys meandered in the overgrowth as the sun set.
(I snagged the second platform, Sunset point, Mt. Abu, 6PM)
Made my way to the impressive Jain temples at Dilwara by local bus (always ask the local shopkeepers for the cheapest ride available) and the wildlife sanctuary a kilometer hike or so away.
(Corn on the cob. Sunset point, Mt. Abu, 8PM)
Nothing particularly unique or crazy about this trip. It was a getaway of sorts. After about 2 months here, for someone spoiled by ample fresh air in Upton-- I think I was needing to get out of the city to just breath in some cold mountain air and take in the greenery. The city of Jodhpur, though small compared to the epic metropolitan outcroppings at Delhi or Mumbai, can be challenging if you are particularly sensitive to the smells of defecation and pollution. I would recommend a visit to an Indian city to any people who are skeptical of the human contribution to global warming.
Nevertheless, for me, this trip was an affirmation of my ability to travel on my own, confirming that my experience in the system is decent enough to make it without undue stress. And so I just spent ample time walking, exploring, and finding cool nooks in the woods. At times, I was in the sanctuary, hanging off rocks, reaching, picking and eating plump jambus directly from the trees. At times, I observed the crocodiles quietly swimming through the placid pools of water.
(Mandir hidden in the forest, Mt. Abu, 3PM)
I suppose the only time I really had any interesting issues was when I realized that the return bus was incorrectly given to me in PM instead of the actual AM. Having to cancel that, I ran to the railway ticket office in the rain, and dripping, explained that I needed to get back to Jodhpur by the next morning. The ticket handler was rude in the way I've come to expect these guys to be and handed me a sleeper ticket on a waiting-list with about 20 people ahead of me. As the cigarette smoke billowed from his nose and into my face, I asked if there was anything else. He spit paan from his mouth (he was doing both!). His tobacco-infused, yellow, bloodshot eyes glared at me. No response-- next in line please.
Of course, this ticket was at 1:15AM to reach Jodhpur by 7:30AM. Of course, all taxis disappear in Abu after 9PM. I managed to get a guy to drive the 27km to the bus station at 11PM, with fog so thick and throbbing with water, I felt as if it would just begin to rain from below, not from above. The driver, constantly slapping his face to stay awake, blaring music and periodically opening the window-- would utter to me that I would make it without a problem.
I've had a bit of experience driving in different conditions so I keenly observed his technique, which is basically to drive very very slowly until reaching a wall or barrier. When he realizes this is the end of the road, he shifts and continues to the next barrier. Zigzagging up and down a mountain, we reached the railway station with time to spare like blind mole rats scavenging for food.
I had to figure out the whole waitlinglist situation, but i figured worst comes to worse I'd just get on the train if my berth isn't given and handle the repercussions in full American English (they are particularly nice to foreigners in these situations, especially if I paid a bit of baksheesh to fullfill my NRI 'quota'). I go to the ticket office, and ask them what to do. They ask me what I want to do. I ask again, they ask me again. We look at each other equally confused by each others inquiries. A long moment of silence passes into the night. At this point, it's late, I'm a bit frustrated, my ego is a bit depleted for not having figured this out yet, and I say in a sortof chaste Gujarati if someone could just give me a straight answer and tell me what to do. Without a word, they point me to the Enquiry office, I go there, make my case and soon the guy posts the 'list'. In an interesting turn of irony, I proceeded to show a local that his wife got her seat who asked me for help-- maybe he was tired or something. The smell of the station fades as I adjust to the sketchy characters lurking and observe various people sleeping-- a typical situation for a station at night. The train comes late and I get on after setting an alarm, collapse on my adopted bunk (a woman was sleeping on my assignment), and find myself wishing I could've stayed longer.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Moving Pictures II
This is a discussion about water storage structures. It's in Hindi and the audio isn't great. For those who can understand Hindi: if you fiddle with your speakers you should be able to make out what they're saying.
This was the ride to the Jain temple. Empty, as it was pretty early. The ride back was pretty ridiculous. Imagine this exact bus, packed to capacity, even the roof was crowded with people. I waved him down from the side of the road in the midday scorching heat (I was even advised by a goat herd accompanied passing farmer to get in the shade). The conductor/kid running the show jumped out, and yelled over and over again to run as fast as I could, "दौड़ना! दौड़ना! दौड़ना!"-- and get on the bus. The ride back was so packed, sweat dripped from passenger to passenger, every part of my body touching somebody or something. We would 'stop' periodically, and the kid, slowly losing his voice, would machine-gun fire the order, "उतरो!उतरो!उतरो!उतरो!", until the various spinsters, school children, and workers jumped out of the bus--while it moved at a snail's pace. I don't think we actually stopped once. I estimated about 40 people in the space you see above, with another 20 on top. Note: the ceiling you see is only about 5'9'' in height. Being about 6'2" myself, you can imagine the state of my head on the ride back-- strangely Klimt-like locked and fully cocked to the side, the L-bracket formed by my neck cradled the head of some old lady.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Ajmer Farewell
Upon returning to the facility, my presence was greeted with smiles.
They were all curious as to whether I made it to the Dargah or not, how it was, what it was like. Many of them hadn't been there themselves and it made for an interesting story.
I was educated on the importance of the place by Rajendraji over dinner; that it's actually a very significant location for Christian, Hindu, and Muslim visitors, that I didn't need to change my name. Some people laughed at my story loudly, others, not at all. It turns out that it's actually a shrine built atop the tomb of Moinuddin Chishti, founder of a Sufi sect called the Chishti order, known as 'Benefactor of the Poor'.
I was reminded of intrepid religious figures who bridged the gap between Hindu and Muslim. About how Guru Nanak could have felt when he donned his blue clothes and entered Mecca as a Muslim (being a Hindu by birth), and how Shirdi Sai Baba projected both so close to equally that it is still difficult to decipher the details of his early life, or even extract a subtle preference. Nanak founded a new religion. Shirdi inspired a following. But at some point in time they must have had the same feeling. To be alien and to be self-aware of it. It's a feeling of innate foreignness I've never felt before. And yet a sense of self-confidence in the intrinsic unity of it-- whilst debilitated by the absence of my most powerful tool--knowledge.
It's a subtle blend of curiosity, respect, nervousness, confusion, courage, timidity, and hunger--cycling through your body periodically expressing themselves at different strengths. And at that tense moment, I could've said my name, and somewhere deep inside I knew. But what the consideration really was, the thought really crossing my mind...what I desired... was that I wanted to see and experience that shrine--like everbody else.
I wanted to be considered one of them. I was hungry for the full-blooded experience, The no-holds barred, sweaty, messy, overwhelming version. I was driven by a powerful force--curiosity. Not fear.
I was ultimately like any momentarily culturally confused individual: limited by my personal biases and perceptions. And don't get me wrong, the story is relayed with a bit of spin. I'm not going to be journalistic here, after all. And it could've been spun in an opposite direction, "ooo oo check out my cool pix from my fun visit to some mosque in ajmer!! woot woot!!". But I'll avoid trivialities and present some of these stories for entertainment value. What I learned, what it tasted like, and how I learned it. What it feels like to be caught in the engulfing one-way tidal wave of culture and to be rattling in your head that you belong. What it feels like to be a pilgrim in a mosque for the first time, instead of coddled-- because if I'm not perceived as a tourist, we're equally fighting, scraping, clamoring, searching for the precious blessings from this holy place, in a way the indifferent visitor wouldn't understand. To forget Soham for a moment and become Salaudin. Anthropologists call this participant observation.
Shakespeare poses, "What's in a name? that which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet". And to a certain extent, I agree, names and classifications can be methods by which we systematize differentiating factors.
Yet witnessing the similarities of the two religions first hand, in the sea of modest Indian diversity, was admittedly like many temple experiences. This was not much different than the Srinathji temple of Nathdwara, the Siddhivinayak temple in Mumbai, etc. In the end, it's my failure as a writer to express what I thought was the inherent humor of the situation.
Typical, right? The ABCD is so lost in such a significant place that he changes his name?
But I'll save this kind of talk for in person and keep the narrative flowing. I still had another day in Ajmer. And this time, I was sent to a Jain Temple on the outskirts of town at Nareli. A quick bus ride--after a long wait, and we were there. 10AM and staring at a temple complex which was new, clean, and completely empty. As if it was built yesterday, the white marble glowed an incandescent white light in the still rising sun. Solitary and peaceful, I walked around snapping pictures and exploring the backrooms of the temple. The labyrinth behind the shrine was composed of short hallways and tiny rooms. I had to bow almost completely in some of these hallways seemingly made for children. The architecture was fitting for the ancient Jains--not flamboyant, modest, yet gorgeous.
Finally I found an open door to the shrine and sat in the middle of the giant hall. Hearing the infinite echoes of birds in an ocean of silence, I sat under an enormous stone statue of Mahavir sitting like Buddha in the lotus position. After enjoying this rare moment of stillness, I went outside, attempted solo pictures with the timer to decent effect, noticed the looming Aravalli hills behind me and the stepwise path to the individual red sand-stone shrines dotting the hills. That was where I needed to go.
After a few talks with the guys sweeping around the complex, I walked the 1km, circular route to the road that led up. Equipped with my soaked handkerchief, I began the climb. This is the 4th time I've had to climb up to a Jain Temple on some sort of mountain, and I'm starting to notice the trend. Finally reaching, I see the dilapidated structures. The place is a relic, destroyed by people, weather, unwanted visitors. The stone is falling apart, and I'm jumping between breaks in the staircase up the mountainside. But the spectacular views, the lined up red turrets, the feeling of history-- it's a place of beauty. On all sides we're surrounded by the Aravalli Hills. And I'm calm.
(Cliched picture of me on top of a mountain, Aravalli Hills, Nareli, 11AM)
(Hero pose)
(Jain Temples on the Mountain, Nareli, 10AM)
Later, As we're heading back in the bus, pummeling through the rain, the group is tired. We're with a different set, mostly senior coordinators-- each dressing to express their level of professionalism. Some in full traditional khadi suits, dhoti, white shirt, glimmering marwari earrings. Others in Western business casual.
We notice a few bunks open on the sleeper bus and one of the older guys snags a bunk for a nap. We're all awoken by the shouting of the conductor yelling at him, "नीचे उतरओ!!"(get down!). Perked up to see what happens, the conductor continues his tirade about how those seats cost more and that we hadn't booked them. Finally, he stops his lecturing, demands once more for him to get down.
Our guy in the bunk, looks at him, waves his hand in the air, and hilariously says, "कोई बात नहीं भाई" (no problem, brother)!!-- smiles, shifts position in the bunk, and closes the curtain. We laugh about it the entire ride back.
They were all curious as to whether I made it to the Dargah or not, how it was, what it was like. Many of them hadn't been there themselves and it made for an interesting story.
I was educated on the importance of the place by Rajendraji over dinner; that it's actually a very significant location for Christian, Hindu, and Muslim visitors, that I didn't need to change my name. Some people laughed at my story loudly, others, not at all. It turns out that it's actually a shrine built atop the tomb of Moinuddin Chishti, founder of a Sufi sect called the Chishti order, known as 'Benefactor of the Poor'.
I was reminded of intrepid religious figures who bridged the gap between Hindu and Muslim. About how Guru Nanak could have felt when he donned his blue clothes and entered Mecca as a Muslim (being a Hindu by birth), and how Shirdi Sai Baba projected both so close to equally that it is still difficult to decipher the details of his early life, or even extract a subtle preference. Nanak founded a new religion. Shirdi inspired a following. But at some point in time they must have had the same feeling. To be alien and to be self-aware of it. It's a feeling of innate foreignness I've never felt before. And yet a sense of self-confidence in the intrinsic unity of it-- whilst debilitated by the absence of my most powerful tool--knowledge.
It's a subtle blend of curiosity, respect, nervousness, confusion, courage, timidity, and hunger--cycling through your body periodically expressing themselves at different strengths. And at that tense moment, I could've said my name, and somewhere deep inside I knew. But what the consideration really was, the thought really crossing my mind...what I desired... was that I wanted to see and experience that shrine--like everbody else.
I wanted to be considered one of them. I was hungry for the full-blooded experience, The no-holds barred, sweaty, messy, overwhelming version. I was driven by a powerful force--curiosity. Not fear.
I was ultimately like any momentarily culturally confused individual: limited by my personal biases and perceptions. And don't get me wrong, the story is relayed with a bit of spin. I'm not going to be journalistic here, after all. And it could've been spun in an opposite direction, "ooo oo check out my cool pix from my fun visit to some mosque in ajmer!! woot woot!!". But I'll avoid trivialities and present some of these stories for entertainment value. What I learned, what it tasted like, and how I learned it. What it feels like to be caught in the engulfing one-way tidal wave of culture and to be rattling in your head that you belong. What it feels like to be a pilgrim in a mosque for the first time, instead of coddled-- because if I'm not perceived as a tourist, we're equally fighting, scraping, clamoring, searching for the precious blessings from this holy place, in a way the indifferent visitor wouldn't understand. To forget Soham for a moment and become Salaudin. Anthropologists call this participant observation.
Shakespeare poses, "What's in a name? that which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet". And to a certain extent, I agree, names and classifications can be methods by which we systematize differentiating factors.
Yet witnessing the similarities of the two religions first hand, in the sea of modest Indian diversity, was admittedly like many temple experiences. This was not much different than the Srinathji temple of Nathdwara, the Siddhivinayak temple in Mumbai, etc. In the end, it's my failure as a writer to express what I thought was the inherent humor of the situation.
Typical, right? The ABCD is so lost in such a significant place that he changes his name?
But I'll save this kind of talk for in person and keep the narrative flowing. I still had another day in Ajmer. And this time, I was sent to a Jain Temple on the outskirts of town at Nareli. A quick bus ride--after a long wait, and we were there. 10AM and staring at a temple complex which was new, clean, and completely empty. As if it was built yesterday, the white marble glowed an incandescent white light in the still rising sun. Solitary and peaceful, I walked around snapping pictures and exploring the backrooms of the temple. The labyrinth behind the shrine was composed of short hallways and tiny rooms. I had to bow almost completely in some of these hallways seemingly made for children. The architecture was fitting for the ancient Jains--not flamboyant, modest, yet gorgeous.
Finally I found an open door to the shrine and sat in the middle of the giant hall. Hearing the infinite echoes of birds in an ocean of silence, I sat under an enormous stone statue of Mahavir sitting like Buddha in the lotus position. After enjoying this rare moment of stillness, I went outside, attempted solo pictures with the timer to decent effect, noticed the looming Aravalli hills behind me and the stepwise path to the individual red sand-stone shrines dotting the hills. That was where I needed to go.
After a few talks with the guys sweeping around the complex, I walked the 1km, circular route to the road that led up. Equipped with my soaked handkerchief, I began the climb. This is the 4th time I've had to climb up to a Jain Temple on some sort of mountain, and I'm starting to notice the trend. Finally reaching, I see the dilapidated structures. The place is a relic, destroyed by people, weather, unwanted visitors. The stone is falling apart, and I'm jumping between breaks in the staircase up the mountainside. But the spectacular views, the lined up red turrets, the feeling of history-- it's a place of beauty. On all sides we're surrounded by the Aravalli Hills. And I'm calm.
(Cliched picture of me on top of a mountain, Aravalli Hills, Nareli, 11AM)
(Hero pose)
(Jain Temples on the Mountain, Nareli, 10AM)
Later, As we're heading back in the bus, pummeling through the rain, the group is tired. We're with a different set, mostly senior coordinators-- each dressing to express their level of professionalism. Some in full traditional khadi suits, dhoti, white shirt, glimmering marwari earrings. Others in Western business casual.
We notice a few bunks open on the sleeper bus and one of the older guys snags a bunk for a nap. We're all awoken by the shouting of the conductor yelling at him, "नीचे उतरओ!!"(get down!). Perked up to see what happens, the conductor continues his tirade about how those seats cost more and that we hadn't booked them. Finally, he stops his lecturing, demands once more for him to get down.
Our guy in the bunk, looks at him, waves his hand in the air, and hilariously says, "कोई बात नहीं भाई" (no problem, brother)!!-- smiles, shifts position in the bunk, and closes the curtain. We laugh about it the entire ride back.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Ajmer - Dargah
As I walked down the road to the small city near the isolated RCDS center, I remembered the advice/challenge of the field officers: try to spend as little money as possible.
My first stop was a common convenience store to grab a few candies for the day. I've figured out that these guys know the area the best, and with a small purchase you can get indispensable local information-- language barring, naturally. He wrote down his location (i didn't even know where we were), told me to take the #4 bus and get down at the railway station, where i could grab a bike rikshaw since they are the only ones capable of navigating the narrow streets to this Dargah place. I still have no idea of the importance of this place.
After taking the 5rps ride (so good) with some kid on my lap (as usual), I reach the station, grab a bike rikshaw with a boy who is noticeably proportionally smaller than me. I feel guilty as he struggles up the neverending hill, sweating bullets and navigating past hordes of crowds. Soon I ask him to just stop, realizing my feet are a much better option, throwing him the full-fare and buying him a 5rps lime juice. Let this kid tote fat tourists, handicapped people, or seniors-- I can handle the walk.
Navigating the streets I'm noticing the Muslim population and starting to get a grip on what type of place they sent me to. And when I reach the Dargah, I realize-- this is a mosque. Great, Rajendraji is playing a cruel joke on me. I was telling him only two days ago about how I've never been to a mosque and that I actually got barred from entering one in the States (they said they could tell I wasn't Muslim-- they were a little overzealous at this specific place). Of course, he vaguely sends me to one by myself. I gather my wits: just play along, you can figure this out, and if it's bad just walk out. Muslims are accepting, peaceful people..
And, of course, looking around in curious disassociated amazement I'm immediately barked at (जूते निकाल!!!) by some guard to remove my shoes outside, then walk in. By now I know to buy some flowers and acoutremont for the religious part of it, so I grab a prayer shawl and some flowers, etc. and begin my confused walk into the main area. Suddenly, I'm jerked back by a pilgrim who loudly scolds me (माथा बाँध !!!) to cover my head. I have the option of buying a 20rp handkerchief or a 10rp hat. I opt for the skullcap. Walking through, continuing on my own pilgrimage of sorts, another order is screamed at me (हाथ पग धोने!!!)--I forgot to wash my hands and feet.
By this stage, I'm scared lifeless by this place. Everywhere I look everyone seems to know what to do, and no tourists in sight. I finally sit down in front of the main shrine, following suit with the others. Hands in front, palms open, facing me. The priest begins going around asking everyone their names at a rapid fire pace, and one by one they filter in: Mohammed Khan, Hafeez, Bismillah, Akbar Khan, Hassan, Syeed. It's my turn, and the priest with the giant stick is looming over me, "आपका नाम!?", I stumble, he barks again, "आपका नाम!?!?", I look around, look down, he barks again, louder: "आपका नाम!!!!?".
It was at this moment, the culmination of my experience, the previous scoldings, the crowds, the pushing and the shoving, my desire to adapt, the dark green skullcap on my head, the prayer shawl I'm tremblingly holding in my hand, poised to drop the flowers in nervousness, that I say the first thing that comes to my mind. He yells once more, the sounds all drop away, the instance felt like an eternity.
I look up, clear my throat, and say, "Salaudin".
He taps my shoulder thrice with his stick, I throw down 21rps and immediately I'm whisked into the inner sanctum. The crowd is tight enough that we all move like one sluggish organism around this shrine. Beautiful arabic carvings, gold, and marble. I throw 21more rps into the pot, a priest takes my shawl and puts it on my head, says some prayers, hands me some strings, and other things and I continue into the hub of the excitement. Pushed and shoved along the way, I'm thrown, like a sacrifcal lamb, in front of the main alter. A man grabs me, reduces me to my knees, I look up with just enough time to spot some gold stuff, flowers, money, and a marble thing of sorts. Another man pats me on the back, hard, three times, and someone promptly lifts me to my feet--and boom, I'm spit out of the machine like exhaust from a tailpipe. Dizzy and proud of myself for making it, I take my time to listen to some Qawwali and look around. I was happy.
Taking my time walking down the hill, I decide to treat myself with a lime soda-- full masala. And as I drink the cooling drink, I look down and notice an open gutter-- chicken parts, feathers, garbage floating by at a slow pace. I watch the glass of lime soda in my hand: cloudy, grey, particulate matter floating in it. Think about my stomach.... look up... and whisper "Insha'Allah"-- and swallow the whole delicious thing in one gulp.
To be continued...
My first stop was a common convenience store to grab a few candies for the day. I've figured out that these guys know the area the best, and with a small purchase you can get indispensable local information-- language barring, naturally. He wrote down his location (i didn't even know where we were), told me to take the #4 bus and get down at the railway station, where i could grab a bike rikshaw since they are the only ones capable of navigating the narrow streets to this Dargah place. I still have no idea of the importance of this place.
After taking the 5rps ride (so good) with some kid on my lap (as usual), I reach the station, grab a bike rikshaw with a boy who is noticeably proportionally smaller than me. I feel guilty as he struggles up the neverending hill, sweating bullets and navigating past hordes of crowds. Soon I ask him to just stop, realizing my feet are a much better option, throwing him the full-fare and buying him a 5rps lime juice. Let this kid tote fat tourists, handicapped people, or seniors-- I can handle the walk.
Navigating the streets I'm noticing the Muslim population and starting to get a grip on what type of place they sent me to. And when I reach the Dargah, I realize-- this is a mosque. Great, Rajendraji is playing a cruel joke on me. I was telling him only two days ago about how I've never been to a mosque and that I actually got barred from entering one in the States (they said they could tell I wasn't Muslim-- they were a little overzealous at this specific place). Of course, he vaguely sends me to one by myself. I gather my wits: just play along, you can figure this out, and if it's bad just walk out. Muslims are accepting, peaceful people..
And, of course, looking around in curious disassociated amazement I'm immediately barked at (जूते निकाल!!!) by some guard to remove my shoes outside, then walk in. By now I know to buy some flowers and acoutremont for the religious part of it, so I grab a prayer shawl and some flowers, etc. and begin my confused walk into the main area. Suddenly, I'm jerked back by a pilgrim who loudly scolds me (माथा बाँध !!!) to cover my head. I have the option of buying a 20rp handkerchief or a 10rp hat. I opt for the skullcap. Walking through, continuing on my own pilgrimage of sorts, another order is screamed at me (हाथ पग धोने!!!)--I forgot to wash my hands and feet.
By this stage, I'm scared lifeless by this place. Everywhere I look everyone seems to know what to do, and no tourists in sight. I finally sit down in front of the main shrine, following suit with the others. Hands in front, palms open, facing me. The priest begins going around asking everyone their names at a rapid fire pace, and one by one they filter in: Mohammed Khan, Hafeez, Bismillah, Akbar Khan, Hassan, Syeed. It's my turn, and the priest with the giant stick is looming over me, "आपका नाम!?", I stumble, he barks again, "आपका नाम!?!?", I look around, look down, he barks again, louder: "आपका नाम!!!!?".
It was at this moment, the culmination of my experience, the previous scoldings, the crowds, the pushing and the shoving, my desire to adapt, the dark green skullcap on my head, the prayer shawl I'm tremblingly holding in my hand, poised to drop the flowers in nervousness, that I say the first thing that comes to my mind. He yells once more, the sounds all drop away, the instance felt like an eternity.
I look up, clear my throat, and say, "Salaudin".
He taps my shoulder thrice with his stick, I throw down 21rps and immediately I'm whisked into the inner sanctum. The crowd is tight enough that we all move like one sluggish organism around this shrine. Beautiful arabic carvings, gold, and marble. I throw 21more rps into the pot, a priest takes my shawl and puts it on my head, says some prayers, hands me some strings, and other things and I continue into the hub of the excitement. Pushed and shoved along the way, I'm thrown, like a sacrifcal lamb, in front of the main alter. A man grabs me, reduces me to my knees, I look up with just enough time to spot some gold stuff, flowers, money, and a marble thing of sorts. Another man pats me on the back, hard, three times, and someone promptly lifts me to my feet--and boom, I'm spit out of the machine like exhaust from a tailpipe. Dizzy and proud of myself for making it, I take my time to listen to some Qawwali and look around. I was happy.
Taking my time walking down the hill, I decide to treat myself with a lime soda-- full masala. And as I drink the cooling drink, I look down and notice an open gutter-- chicken parts, feathers, garbage floating by at a slow pace. I watch the glass of lime soda in my hand: cloudy, grey, particulate matter floating in it. Think about my stomach.... look up... and whisper "Insha'Allah"-- and swallow the whole delicious thing in one gulp.
To be continued...
Friday, July 10, 2009
Ajmer Beginnings
As usual, my last trip was unplanned. At lunch, Rajendraji (a veteran, tough, authoritarian figure with a wicked sense of humor) approaches me and asks if maybe i'm interested in a field visit. "कब (when)?", "आज (today)", "कितने बजे(what time)?", "पता नहीं, शायद नौ बजे (idunno, maybe 9)","कितने दिन (how many days)?"."Be ready 8:30. I or Shrikantji call you. days? three.[english]"
And of course, in the middle of dinner, my bag packed carefully-- I get the call. Half hour, bus stop, be there or we'll leave without you. As I approach the 10PM bus to Ajmer, I see Rajendraji and walk over to him. In a truly cinematic way, the crowd around him (seemingly random people) turn around and face me in unison. They are a veritable all-star team of field officers and coordinators. They all know me, but of course, being terrible with names I can't remember who's Bhamuji, Bhimaramji, or Natwarsingji. Where am I going? Oh USAID conference on drought mitigation. They're giving a presentation I prepared and presenting a paper I co-authored. Fantastic, I think, I really wish that my packing didn't consist solely of a dirty t-shirt.
We reach Ajmer at 3am, bounce through the streets 6 to a rikshaw, and take in the mildly lit mountainous topography. We reach the really nice Catholic facility, to a bumbling doorman which whom we sign in. "We're in room 16, sir, where's room 16?", "There is no room sixteen", "wha?(then where the hell does this key go?) "
By 8am we're already meeting up for the first morning sessions. Long days, huge meals, short nights. Rajendraji always proundly introduced us by saying that we can all deal with anything cause we're the type to go to the field-- we were invincible. At lunch on the first day, we were all sweating like crazy under an idle fan. When we asked if we could turn on the fan, the other NGOs looked at us, and said: I thought you guys were fieldwallas?-- switching on the fan, the whole dining hall erupted in laughter. The first two days went by in a flurry of discussion, debate, assessment, presentations, group sessions, and private meetings. I learned a lot about drought mitigation strategies from young, technical minded folks, and veteran old minded folks (the kind who even keep their mobiles in Hindi). Finally, when they had a closed door session, Rajendraji wrote on a piece of paper "Go Dargraha, come back 8 for khanna (food)".
Panel discussion/debate (poor guys got grilled alive up there)
Assessment scorecard
Day session assessment of intermediate goals
Night session, reviewing our work late into the night 11:30PM
Thinking I was going on a field visit, I hadn't planned for tourism. It's funny how dependent we become on knowledge. No internet. No guidebook. No English. In all honesty, I knew nothing about Ajmer. So when he said Dargraha, I had no idea what he was getting me into...
To be continued...
And of course, in the middle of dinner, my bag packed carefully-- I get the call. Half hour, bus stop, be there or we'll leave without you. As I approach the 10PM bus to Ajmer, I see Rajendraji and walk over to him. In a truly cinematic way, the crowd around him (seemingly random people) turn around and face me in unison. They are a veritable all-star team of field officers and coordinators. They all know me, but of course, being terrible with names I can't remember who's Bhamuji, Bhimaramji, or Natwarsingji. Where am I going? Oh USAID conference on drought mitigation. They're giving a presentation I prepared and presenting a paper I co-authored. Fantastic, I think, I really wish that my packing didn't consist solely of a dirty t-shirt.
We reach Ajmer at 3am, bounce through the streets 6 to a rikshaw, and take in the mildly lit mountainous topography. We reach the really nice Catholic facility, to a bumbling doorman which whom we sign in. "We're in room 16, sir, where's room 16?", "There is no room sixteen", "wha?(then where the hell does this key go?) "
By 8am we're already meeting up for the first morning sessions. Long days, huge meals, short nights. Rajendraji always proundly introduced us by saying that we can all deal with anything cause we're the type to go to the field-- we were invincible. At lunch on the first day, we were all sweating like crazy under an idle fan. When we asked if we could turn on the fan, the other NGOs looked at us, and said: I thought you guys were fieldwallas?-- switching on the fan, the whole dining hall erupted in laughter. The first two days went by in a flurry of discussion, debate, assessment, presentations, group sessions, and private meetings. I learned a lot about drought mitigation strategies from young, technical minded folks, and veteran old minded folks (the kind who even keep their mobiles in Hindi). Finally, when they had a closed door session, Rajendraji wrote on a piece of paper "Go Dargraha, come back 8 for khanna (food)".
Panel discussion/debate (poor guys got grilled alive up there)
Assessment scorecard
Day session assessment of intermediate goals
Night session, reviewing our work late into the night 11:30PM
Thinking I was going on a field visit, I hadn't planned for tourism. It's funny how dependent we become on knowledge. No internet. No guidebook. No English. In all honesty, I knew nothing about Ajmer. So when he said Dargraha, I had no idea what he was getting me into...
To be continued...
Note
The powercut of a few weeks ago put a big crimp on my flow of output. My notes piled up, new experiences occurred at rapid frequency and I didn't want to compromise on the quality of my posts. The internet is not very reliable these days (it's gone in and out thrice while writing this sentence), therefore the process to write has slowed considerably.
Nevertheless, the details of the wedding seem like ancient history now. My motorcycle lessons, a few field visits: the oldest field center, the hospital, baap for the third time-- alas, will have to wait.
To avoid the mundane, to keep this fresh, and focus on the extraordinary: I will pick up from the most recent events.
For the rest, please remember I'm available for talk time on the phone and would be happy to tell some stories-- there's plenty that don't make it on here. I was talking to an American friend the other day about how we were amused by the fact that if you remain observant, there's something-- at least an image or moment that is so foreign and interesting-- that you could tell a story about here. But it's not just India. I suppose it's everywhere if we choose to keep our eyes open, non-judgmental, and receptive.
Nevertheless, the details of the wedding seem like ancient history now. My motorcycle lessons, a few field visits: the oldest field center, the hospital, baap for the third time-- alas, will have to wait.
To avoid the mundane, to keep this fresh, and focus on the extraordinary: I will pick up from the most recent events.
For the rest, please remember I'm available for talk time on the phone and would be happy to tell some stories-- there's plenty that don't make it on here. I was talking to an American friend the other day about how we were amused by the fact that if you remain observant, there's something-- at least an image or moment that is so foreign and interesting-- that you could tell a story about here. But it's not just India. I suppose it's everywhere if we choose to keep our eyes open, non-judgmental, and receptive.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Weather Patterns
I'm tired.
I get back from work, after having been up a bit too late at the groom's farewell the night before. Rajputs know how to celebrate, their logic consisted of having the guests join the party rather than suffer the DJ beats late into the night. Can't complain if you were there right?
As I saunter into my room early, covered in sweat and dust (a peculiar humidity is in the air), fully clothed and filthy; I fall asleep on my bed.
My dreams are more vivid than usual, consisting of colorfully dressed rotating women, interrupted by a crescendo of drums. The beats are growing louder and louder. My eyes open and in a hazy state of confusion I come to grips with the fact that the drumming is real. I hear Govind shouting orders. I carefully get up, open my closed doors, and rubbing my eyes look out to behold the trappings of a grand feast. Large colorful cushions, ornate tables set onto the ground, matkas labeled with the misspelled cautionary "adictive poision, will keep you awake", blue, pink, orange, bright green, and yellow silk sheets flung about any rampart-- truly flamboyant. I spy 4x4 foot speakers set up around the whole affair. Then the moment of tragic realization occurs. This is directly outside of my door.
Cursing under my breath, grumbling from exhaustion, I decide the best plan of action is to find a decent shirt, take a shower and get ready. When in Rome i guess.
A few minutes later, I'm ready for my shower. Stark naked, sweating and dirty I'm standing in the bathroom, the small bucket for my bath poised above my head, ready to relinquish its refreshing, cleansing waterfall. Boom. powercut.
Humored by the irony of the situation, I step out of the bathroom and notice an eerie darkness outside. It's only 6PM, I think to myself. I throw on some clothes and swing open the doors. The sight is unimaginable. Whipping wind, dark as night, a swell of dust scratches my face, and people are running in every direction.
After grabbing my handkerchief I'm up on the roof with guesthouse friends taking in the splendor and savagery of the dust storm. The light slowly returns as we're coated in golden dust. We hold railings as the wind could knock us over. The rain begins with what looks like giant droplets of chocolate milk, spotting our clothes with brown polka dots. After the storm settles a bit, we witness the awesome lightning caused by the static electricity of infinite sand particles rubbing against each other. The streaks of light covered the entire sky, illuminating our meek bodies. Some people prayed and cried. We stood at the railing, staring into the abyss, shoulder to shoulder. It eventually stopped.
(The storm approach as viewed from the guesthouse, 6PM)
[This picture was taken by Eva, another guest]
Needless to say, the dinner did not go as planned. Adjusting, things were shifted, music was on hold until the power returned and we ate by candlelight. It was elegent and subdued. But with the arrival of a generator, things were back on.
Flash forward. I lay in my bed. 2AM. It's very literally jumping up and down from the hard beats of the giant speaker directly facing my window, with no sign of stopping. I feel like I'm in the bathroom of a nightclub, my thoughts pervaded by the pounding music.
I smile.
I remember witnessing the drinking habits of Rajput grandmas. The infiltrating and devastating dust storm. Govind standing under a roof soaked and disappointed. The kaliedoscopic splash of colors. The candlelight and gentle drum and harmonium transforming into the electronic beats of remixed Hindi songs. Dancing in the rain with reckless abandon, overcoming my fear of looking like a fool, after seeing every member of the family begrudgingly expressing themselves on the dancefloor. Sitting in a room, a cellphone our only light source while sharing stories of what we were doing when the storm hit. The ghoomar the young women did which brought tears to my eyes. When I close my eyes I imagine a vibrating bed at a cheap motel and think to myself: people pay for this. Oh yeah. I have work tomorrow.
Only in India.
I get back from work, after having been up a bit too late at the groom's farewell the night before. Rajputs know how to celebrate, their logic consisted of having the guests join the party rather than suffer the DJ beats late into the night. Can't complain if you were there right?
As I saunter into my room early, covered in sweat and dust (a peculiar humidity is in the air), fully clothed and filthy; I fall asleep on my bed.
My dreams are more vivid than usual, consisting of colorfully dressed rotating women, interrupted by a crescendo of drums. The beats are growing louder and louder. My eyes open and in a hazy state of confusion I come to grips with the fact that the drumming is real. I hear Govind shouting orders. I carefully get up, open my closed doors, and rubbing my eyes look out to behold the trappings of a grand feast. Large colorful cushions, ornate tables set onto the ground, matkas labeled with the misspelled cautionary "adictive poision, will keep you awake", blue, pink, orange, bright green, and yellow silk sheets flung about any rampart-- truly flamboyant. I spy 4x4 foot speakers set up around the whole affair. Then the moment of tragic realization occurs. This is directly outside of my door.
Cursing under my breath, grumbling from exhaustion, I decide the best plan of action is to find a decent shirt, take a shower and get ready. When in Rome i guess.
A few minutes later, I'm ready for my shower. Stark naked, sweating and dirty I'm standing in the bathroom, the small bucket for my bath poised above my head, ready to relinquish its refreshing, cleansing waterfall. Boom. powercut.
Humored by the irony of the situation, I step out of the bathroom and notice an eerie darkness outside. It's only 6PM, I think to myself. I throw on some clothes and swing open the doors. The sight is unimaginable. Whipping wind, dark as night, a swell of dust scratches my face, and people are running in every direction.
After grabbing my handkerchief I'm up on the roof with guesthouse friends taking in the splendor and savagery of the dust storm. The light slowly returns as we're coated in golden dust. We hold railings as the wind could knock us over. The rain begins with what looks like giant droplets of chocolate milk, spotting our clothes with brown polka dots. After the storm settles a bit, we witness the awesome lightning caused by the static electricity of infinite sand particles rubbing against each other. The streaks of light covered the entire sky, illuminating our meek bodies. Some people prayed and cried. We stood at the railing, staring into the abyss, shoulder to shoulder. It eventually stopped.
(The storm approach as viewed from the guesthouse, 6PM)
[This picture was taken by Eva, another guest]
Needless to say, the dinner did not go as planned. Adjusting, things were shifted, music was on hold until the power returned and we ate by candlelight. It was elegent and subdued. But with the arrival of a generator, things were back on.
Flash forward. I lay in my bed. 2AM. It's very literally jumping up and down from the hard beats of the giant speaker directly facing my window, with no sign of stopping. I feel like I'm in the bathroom of a nightclub, my thoughts pervaded by the pounding music.
I smile.
I remember witnessing the drinking habits of Rajput grandmas. The infiltrating and devastating dust storm. Govind standing under a roof soaked and disappointed. The kaliedoscopic splash of colors. The candlelight and gentle drum and harmonium transforming into the electronic beats of remixed Hindi songs. Dancing in the rain with reckless abandon, overcoming my fear of looking like a fool, after seeing every member of the family begrudgingly expressing themselves on the dancefloor. Sitting in a room, a cellphone our only light source while sharing stories of what we were doing when the storm hit. The ghoomar the young women did which brought tears to my eyes. When I close my eyes I imagine a vibrating bed at a cheap motel and think to myself: people pay for this. Oh yeah. I have work tomorrow.
Only in India.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Setback
Due to the frequent powercuts and subsequent surges in electricity, I've been having issues with my camera. Apologies for the delay, expect the following themed posts soon:
1) Rajput wedding
2) Dust storm/cyclone
3) Visit to first GRAVIS outpost
Just a few days... there may be a field visit in between, so that may limit my internet resources.
1) Rajput wedding
2) Dust storm/cyclone
3) Visit to first GRAVIS outpost
Just a few days... there may be a field visit in between, so that may limit my internet resources.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Baap, revisited
(Guruji's Schedule, dinner is actually usually at 10PM)
Typical for a morning at Baap, Guruji stares into the distant sunrise on his, the only, raised cot and begins to muse Indian philosophy aloud at 6AM. On the dimly lit terrace our bodies are huddled underneath blankets-- open shirts the night before-- and Guruji gently raises the volume of his soliloquy until we all wipe the dust from our eyes and reluctantly wake up. Seriously, I can't make this up.
(Guruji)
The hustle and bustle of the morning begins as usual and slowly the dormitory becomes an office. This time, I was equipped with a kit, a method, and a room in which to conduct water testing. We arranged our field laboratory as best we could, unfortunately without a fan, and began doing the methodical (insanely boring) sterilizing process of everything we had. A few mishaps with the pressure cooker, a few spillages of the broth, but mainly decent work. I benefited from having a lab background and introducing some 'uptight American' QA standards for what we were doing--cultures, turbidity, pH, and mineral content--micro/analytical 101.
(Sterilizing petri plates, Baap Center, 8AM)
(Guess which one I didn't drink.. thinking it was the dirtiest..)
The tricky part was that the lab was only for prep and the actual testing was to be done.. on location. Fast forward, I'm sitting under an expansive living tree supplemented by branches to make a roof of sorts in the middle of a group of huts. The ground beneath me is the hollow mortar paving they use for their floors, I'm sitting on a khat. I'm marveling at the ingenuity and beauty of the place, chameleons climbing around the tree, a matka (clay pot) hanging for water, a Marwar placidly spinning a bobbin and making string from the family goats. The breeze here is hot, but justifies the anatomical function of sweat and feels cool, even at literally 116.6F. We hear the tinkling of goats, the breeze whispering through the intertwined brush, and the gentle spinning of the bobbin. I've had tea yet I succumb to the serenity and fall asleep.
This field visit was less about monitoring workers and more about spending time with villagers. Ask them where they get their water, if anyone's been sick, how they clean their water, if they wash their hands, etc. Most are cooperative and some are funny in smilingly saying they use the desert sand to wash their hands (yet they really do). We go to the taanka and take some water, drink it (I think I shouldn't have had so much, but I did anyway--still alive), test it carefully in the jeep, record my results and move on. The villagers are fascinated with our syringes of red fluid and pyrotechnics (we flame methanol to sterilize a vacuum filter). The women cover their faces and refuse to sit on the raised level with us to answer questions-- so I make an excuse that I want to watch them make lemon juice and join them on the floor. After finding out about the sickness of a baby I ask to see it and the sister runs away with the child thinking I'm going to take her away-- the local doctor will come today anyway. I inspect more medicines and supplements. Many people politely request I refrain from pictures of their homes and I oblige. After confidently speaking my new language Hingradi (HIndi-eNGlish-gujaRAti-marwaDI), i reveal I am an American to a particularly happy Bishnoi. As we pull off in the Jeep leaving him in the desert, he smiles, points to the sky, and delicately says "America". Some are sarcastic, seemingly having the belief that money grows on trees where I'm from and is not the result of a bit of luck (in getting there) and 27 years of the hardship and work of my family-- it's really just a matter of perception. Just another day at the office I suppose.
I spend time talking with new and old friends at the field center. They take me away to 'work' which is really 7 guys watching 1 guy paint a bumper-- while they dance around, joke about women, eat betelnuts, and drink chai. I exchange shirts with one of them, grab a 5rupee mango juice (puree), and head back to speak with Guruji who gives me tips on how to control my unruly 'he-rry powter' hair. The dust and sun basically control it now. And as dusk falls, we sit on the grass and do some 'manoranjan'-- which today was a whistling contest which ended between me and my shirt-swapper. He won for volume and diversity of skill (I swear he could whistle with his fingers positioned in his mouth in maybe like 20 ways), I won for melody. Dinner is excellent as usual (atypically, I do it the Marwari way and just mash the roti and vegetables together and eat the delicious slop, leaving my spoon untouched I drink the loose yogurt directly from the bowl). I've picked up the habit of eating raw onions, the Rajasthani way-- Dad/everybody tells me it helps combat heat. With a bit of lemon is tastes like a sweet spicy fruit.
(Chillaxing, trust me they were smiling two seconds before I took this, 9PM)
Another night under the stars, the meteor showers are gorgeous and the small bits of windblown sand give a slight illusion that these celestial missiles are falling from the sky and gently landing on my face.. all as the moon rises slowly in the horizon.
When I take the bus back, a kid in my lap due to overcrowding, I have a sense of being home.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Avi and Natasha
(Avi giving me a tour, Jodhpur, 7:30PM)
There are quite a few interesting people I've met at the guesthouse, with its cycling residents from across the globe. Of this motley crew of sorts I met Natasha and her husband Avi. When they invited me to their home (just 30km outside of Jodhpur, they were having renovations done), I was a bit hasty in giving an affirmative response. Boy, I did not have a clue what kind of adventure awaited.
By the time we stepped into Avi's AC car, with deeply tinted windows and no mirrors, I had known that he was an army officer. But after we drove around Jodhpur picking up the best food items they could think of: their favorite pav bhaji, authentic punjabi dhaba dal and naan from near the railway station, rajasthani sweets, veg. sandwiches, cheese, bread, and other protein rich foods-- Avi started to speak about his job.
Into the night, he bagan to take a confessional tone. Explaining to me, in quite possibly the humblest way he could, his personal history. The son of a Bengali professor of English his language was immaculate, and he carefully explained the prestige of the Indian army. He was a top graduate of IMA-in Dehradun. An overacheiver in officers school and a member of the elite Black Cat Commandos he served in the Kargil conflict. He began to explain the horrors of war: the pain of killing, the starvation, the climate, the internal moral struggle. He had killed over 100 people, been shot four times, and his body was studded with shrapnel-- all in the name of duty to country--by the age of 30. This guy was, please excuse my language, a certified badass.
I was nervous when he told me not to speak a word of English if anyone asked me anything at the base and to undo a button and act Gujarati (I'm still not sure if he was joking). And when I began to have a few doubts about the validity of his stories, we pulled into the Army base outside of Jodhpur, flickering with red lights embedded into the road, and reached his house where he quietly and reluctantly showed me his medals, certificates, diplomas, awards, and scars. On the outside he is a clean cut, teetotaler, who is soft spoken and kind.
Natasha, a native of Punjab, had an interesting story herself (which also in a teary confessional, was much different than the one she'd told me at the guesthouse). She was raised practically illiterate as a prize bride of her father's desires. She had been beaten (implied rape) severely by her family and practically thrown on the street in the name of caste. When Avi met her, broken nose and bruised, he nursed her to health and taught her English. She's tall, fair, quite beautiful and has a very generous caring heart. She's changed her name now, but after talking and dinner and sharing stories, she finally told me her real one.
Now that they are settled and happy, Natasha has started a dog breeding business. Avi wants out of the army to continue a career in Shooting. He studies under a former world record holder and is training for the 2016 Olympics. He has a lot of gold medals himself. The precision, focus, and meditative nature of the practice suits him. It lets him quiet the chaotic battle between internal and external forces.
So after a huge feast, a lot of talking, a bit of shooting, and a stay at the animal house (6 rollicking dogs, a squirrel, a dove, and a turtle), I asked to be taken back. I realized, when seeing how sad they were when we left that these were two people trying to make the best of their lives. Ridiculously alienated by their individual pasts and sense of duty to culture they cling to any semblance of normalcy--and deeply feel the desire for freinds. So what if they were a bit too nice? In a sense it was therapeutic for them to wear sweatpants on a Saturday, wake up late and joke around. Sing songs, watch movies, and talk about life. They will be friends for a long time, I think.
(He hit the closest to the bulls-eye, my shots are the top two)
Monday, June 8, 2009
Remembrance
With a small stature, jovial Varunji comes to work everyday with a big bindhu (forehead application) from the mandir (temple). Naturally, I asked him to help me complete my shraadh puja for Mom.
(The gate to the temple, Chandpaul 8:15AM)
And so, on Friday (the prescribed date) he took me to Chandpaul, to the holiest place he knew, the origin of his caste. It was unique (even for India) in that the whole town was seemingly populated by pundits, pujaris, sadhu-types, and many people who looked typical on first glance yet with revealing braids of hair as they walked past. We walked up different sets of steps, each opening to a different ashram, higher and higher into the Jodhpur hills. Ultimately, the topmost place near a small pond was our destination, and there we were greeted by Premlalji, my pundit. An old man, a good and caring man.
Varunji snapped a few photos with his cell and left me with the indispensable Ramswarthji. He had lost someone recently but due to his caste couldn't perform the puja in the way I was permitted. I was moved by the fact that I could facilitate the fulfillment of his own sense of duty.
(Ramswarthji)
The puja, consisting of 3hours of chanting with fire, offerings, and various gesticulations, went as expected. Highly symbolic in nature, in a way, it is a ritual which helps the performer cope with the grief of loss. In remembrance, it is a way by which we focus deeply on our departed ancestors, how their lives have influenced us, changed us, composed us. We symbolically give and sacrifice every element that contributes to our perceptions of reality. Emotion, intellect, physical movement, sensations, nourishment, fire, earth, water, and air. Regardless of belief in subscribed religious duty, it is meaningless without sincerity.
Afterwards, satisfied and at peace I spent time on the windy stoop of the hilltop mandir contemplating my own composition, and what she had unconditionally given me in my life. So many things I can't even comprehend. But most of all, love.
(The gate to the temple, Chandpaul 8:15AM)
And so, on Friday (the prescribed date) he took me to Chandpaul, to the holiest place he knew, the origin of his caste. It was unique (even for India) in that the whole town was seemingly populated by pundits, pujaris, sadhu-types, and many people who looked typical on first glance yet with revealing braids of hair as they walked past. We walked up different sets of steps, each opening to a different ashram, higher and higher into the Jodhpur hills. Ultimately, the topmost place near a small pond was our destination, and there we were greeted by Premlalji, my pundit. An old man, a good and caring man.
Varunji snapped a few photos with his cell and left me with the indispensable Ramswarthji. He had lost someone recently but due to his caste couldn't perform the puja in the way I was permitted. I was moved by the fact that I could facilitate the fulfillment of his own sense of duty.
(Ramswarthji)
The puja, consisting of 3hours of chanting with fire, offerings, and various gesticulations, went as expected. Highly symbolic in nature, in a way, it is a ritual which helps the performer cope with the grief of loss. In remembrance, it is a way by which we focus deeply on our departed ancestors, how their lives have influenced us, changed us, composed us. We symbolically give and sacrifice every element that contributes to our perceptions of reality. Emotion, intellect, physical movement, sensations, nourishment, fire, earth, water, and air. Regardless of belief in subscribed religious duty, it is meaningless without sincerity.
Afterwards, satisfied and at peace I spent time on the windy stoop of the hilltop mandir contemplating my own composition, and what she had unconditionally given me in my life. So many things I can't even comprehend. But most of all, love.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Moving Pictures
This is my first attempt to post videos. Still working out the bugs.
Note: The sound may be crackling a bit, so don't throw the volume up too high.
enjoy for now, more to come.
(Thar driving, ~9:00AM)
(Conferencing, ~9:30AM)
Note: The sound may be crackling a bit, so don't throw the volume up too high.
enjoy for now, more to come.
(Thar driving, ~9:00AM)
(Conferencing, ~9:30AM)
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
First Taste of the Thar
All of a sudden the buggy went off road. I trusted Panaramji with my life at this point, so I quickly rolled down the window and took it in. The barren, mesmerizing desert, flat beyond eyesight dotted with Khejri trees was in many ways a dream come true. To go from verdant, cool, wet Massachusetts to the stark landscape of the Thar was an affirmation of my curiosities with the perceived dualities we witness everyday. Basically, I was in a good mood.
(Dhani, Thar Desert near Baap, 8:00AM )
We tumbled through dunes and hard soil and through bushes. The further we went from the road the less I could imagine the presence of human life. Despite this, and the Thar being characterized by sparse and highly variable rainfall, extreme variation in diurnal and annual temperatures and high evaporation, it is the most populated desert on Earth.
Soon, we came to a Dhani (a small group of houses sharing a common caste) and were greeted by the residents. Unfortunately, they speak a heavily accented Marwari so Panaramji was the only one who understood, giving us feedback so we could write it down as we fielded questions. But what struck me about the visit (in a good way) was that it was in many ways lacking the cliche I expected. The ideas of foreigness, extreme graciousness, or misunderstanding were nonexistent. Rather, they knew exactly who we were, were pleased and greeted us with a smile, but without protocol or hesitation dove directly into what we could help with. They explained that certain projects were working (specifically water management, they're just waiting for the monsoon rains) and others not-so-much (handicrafts were nice, but they needed more para-vet training so they could take better care of their animals). They asked politely if we could help with these things. We inspected the Taankas (underground water storage tanks for collected rain) they'd built (with help from GRAVIS) to make sure they were operational and if they needed anything else. We recorded, suggested, even debated a bit, came to a consensus and headed off, deeper into the desert to find someone else.
(The Naadi diggers, Where's waldo?)
At one point, I dug alongside the workers to make a Naadi (seasonal man-made pond for rainwater collection) and they enjoyed seeing the 'white' Indian sweat alongside them while they explained that 100 rupees a day was worth it, and that enough of this work and my fat arms would be as skinny and strong as theirs. In Shekhsar at around 5:30PM out of nowhere about 10 peacocks emerged from the wilderness--plumage and all. As we drove through the terrain they began to become a sortof nuisance. I counted about 50 that day. And it further highlighted the sortof optimistic paradoxical nature of the place. Barren and lifeless, yet almost insanely exotic at times. The women working at these sites wore the brightest most vividly colorful saris I'd seen.
(Shekhsar Krishna temple, 6:00PM)
These encounters continued for the better portion of the day, through heat, through more dunes and villages and sleepy homesteads. Bishnoi, Muslim, Hindu, no caste. I recorded and recommended treatment for some older gentlemen with BPH and another with goiter. I inspected their medicines to make sure they were on track. When we returned to the field center the new projects were immediately put into place (call to the vet: hey can you come in two weeks for a training, yes, ok see you then). and boom. a days work done.
(Paratha and Dahi, Baap center, 11AM)
We ate in a roadhouse stall, the speciality of the area (a favorite for truck, rickshaw, and taxi drivers) of Paratha (spiced fried flat bread) and Dahi (yogurt) with namak (the desert harvested local smoky salt). It was quite possibly one of the best things I've eaten in my entire life.
(Where the Paratha was made)
At the field center we all hung out for a while, listening to music or talking (while the electricity went in and out), all sat together in the Mess and had a simple dinner (prepared really well by the young cook who makes food for 27 hungry dudes everyday). Then about 20 of us grabbed mats, some light blankets and pillows, and slept on the terrace under the stars while the bats flew by in hoards protecting us from insects.
I fell asleep thinking about the resiliency, humbleness, and attitude of those villagers. They just wanted to maintain their lifestyle, while making enough money to pay the government taxes. When I asked if they wanted to leave the hardship, they'd say: we can walk out of here if we want to, the road's not far-- but this is our home, we like it here. we choose to stay.
(Dhani, Thar Desert near Baap, 8:00AM )
We tumbled through dunes and hard soil and through bushes. The further we went from the road the less I could imagine the presence of human life. Despite this, and the Thar being characterized by sparse and highly variable rainfall, extreme variation in diurnal and annual temperatures and high evaporation, it is the most populated desert on Earth.
Soon, we came to a Dhani (a small group of houses sharing a common caste) and were greeted by the residents. Unfortunately, they speak a heavily accented Marwari so Panaramji was the only one who understood, giving us feedback so we could write it down as we fielded questions. But what struck me about the visit (in a good way) was that it was in many ways lacking the cliche I expected. The ideas of foreigness, extreme graciousness, or misunderstanding were nonexistent. Rather, they knew exactly who we were, were pleased and greeted us with a smile, but without protocol or hesitation dove directly into what we could help with. They explained that certain projects were working (specifically water management, they're just waiting for the monsoon rains) and others not-so-much (handicrafts were nice, but they needed more para-vet training so they could take better care of their animals). They asked politely if we could help with these things. We inspected the Taankas (underground water storage tanks for collected rain) they'd built (with help from GRAVIS) to make sure they were operational and if they needed anything else. We recorded, suggested, even debated a bit, came to a consensus and headed off, deeper into the desert to find someone else.
(The Naadi diggers, Where's waldo?)
At one point, I dug alongside the workers to make a Naadi (seasonal man-made pond for rainwater collection) and they enjoyed seeing the 'white' Indian sweat alongside them while they explained that 100 rupees a day was worth it, and that enough of this work and my fat arms would be as skinny and strong as theirs. In Shekhsar at around 5:30PM out of nowhere about 10 peacocks emerged from the wilderness--plumage and all. As we drove through the terrain they began to become a sortof nuisance. I counted about 50 that day. And it further highlighted the sortof optimistic paradoxical nature of the place. Barren and lifeless, yet almost insanely exotic at times. The women working at these sites wore the brightest most vividly colorful saris I'd seen.
(Shekhsar Krishna temple, 6:00PM)
These encounters continued for the better portion of the day, through heat, through more dunes and villages and sleepy homesteads. Bishnoi, Muslim, Hindu, no caste. I recorded and recommended treatment for some older gentlemen with BPH and another with goiter. I inspected their medicines to make sure they were on track. When we returned to the field center the new projects were immediately put into place (call to the vet: hey can you come in two weeks for a training, yes, ok see you then). and boom. a days work done.
(Paratha and Dahi, Baap center, 11AM)
We ate in a roadhouse stall, the speciality of the area (a favorite for truck, rickshaw, and taxi drivers) of Paratha (spiced fried flat bread) and Dahi (yogurt) with namak (the desert harvested local smoky salt). It was quite possibly one of the best things I've eaten in my entire life.
(Where the Paratha was made)
At the field center we all hung out for a while, listening to music or talking (while the electricity went in and out), all sat together in the Mess and had a simple dinner (prepared really well by the young cook who makes food for 27 hungry dudes everyday). Then about 20 of us grabbed mats, some light blankets and pillows, and slept on the terrace under the stars while the bats flew by in hoards protecting us from insects.
I fell asleep thinking about the resiliency, humbleness, and attitude of those villagers. They just wanted to maintain their lifestyle, while making enough money to pay the government taxes. When I asked if they wanted to leave the hardship, they'd say: we can walk out of here if we want to, the road's not far-- but this is our home, we like it here. we choose to stay.
On the Way
(The "dune buggy", our jeep, Thar Desert 9:00AM)
I got the call on Sunday night that I had to be at a certain location in an hour. I'd been requested to go to the field.
As soon as I arrived we sped off into the night through a dust-storm in the jeep. The bumpy, dusty, windy, and exhilarating ride was punctuated by tinny Marwari traditional dance music playing from the primitive cassette player which had only one operation, power on/off controlled by a lightswitch which had been haphazardly screwed into the dashboard. Our field officer guide, Panaramji would look over at me every once in a while and smile. He spoke about as much English as I spoke Hindi, but I think we had an understanding. After asking our colleague if I should require bottled water or special food, and finding out that I didn't, he had a new found respect for me. And so, after about 4 hrs, a roadside dinner, and some more Marwari music, we reached our unlit destination. The seemingly abandoned Kalron field house was being beaten by sandy winds and was illuminated solely by the half moon and our headlights. Two figures were sleeping outside and upon a honk or two woke up. I stepped out of the car and immediately knew I was somewhere else, the ground was much softer and sandier than metropolitan Jodhpur. I wasn't in Kansas anymore.
(Panaramji, 6:00AM)
(Kitchen, Kalron Field Center)
The ghost town field center was where we slept for the night, woke up early, had some peppery (really good) chai and headed to the Baap field center.
This place was like one of those movie depictions of a Vietnam encampment. There was the cook, the kid (isn't there school in India right now?), the fun-loving officers who'd play cricket every evening, the eccentric imaculately dressed Boss (Guruji, as we were to refer to him), Bollywood music blaring, and a bunch of people passed out, talking on the phone, or chilling out in the small patch of grass the horticulturalist (he was really proud of this) had cultivated in the arid conditions. We threw our bags into a room and jumped back into the jeep (or dune buggy, which is how I'll refer to it from now on) and went off road, about 25km through the desert to visit some villages. This is where the real adventure began.
Cast of Characters
By request, some pictures...
(Roshanji, GRAVIS veteran)
(Work friends Shivani and Dipika)
(Prakashji, Director of GRAVIS, my boss)
(Jodhpur sunset, 6:30PM)
(Guesthouse friends, Shorty and Marion)
(Guesthouse employees: Pohal, Chaan Singh, and Sunil)
(Govind and his son Ayush)
(Roshanji, GRAVIS veteran)
(Work friends Shivani and Dipika)
(Prakashji, Director of GRAVIS, my boss)
(Jodhpur sunset, 6:30PM)
(Guesthouse friends, Shorty and Marion)
(Guesthouse employees: Pohal, Chaan Singh, and Sunil)
(Govind and his son Ayush)
Thursday, May 28, 2009
GRAVIS
The sensational arrest that usually hits me in my first days in India is wearing off. So is the feeling that it is an alien place. Perhaps due to the slowing down of my whirlwind movements, or the hospitality of the guest house, I'm starting to get into a familiar routine.
Wake up early, do a bit of exercise (a few surya namaskars or an exploration of the park), listen to some music, do my laundry (yeah, I bought a bar of "cleaning soap" and do it the old fashioned way--saves me time and money as well as being meditative). Then have some 'nescafe', hang out with the people at the guesthouse like cousin "Bunty" (who is the go-to guy for anything you need) or the employed kids Chaan Singh or Sunil, while waiting around for Mosim my rikshaw man.
Due to a considerable (approx. 25 mins) distance from the house to GRAVIS I get a chance to see a lot of Jodhpur every morning. Mosim takes this time to give me casual Hindi lessons as well as show me major sites. Like most Indian cities it has a variable landscape consisting of modernized buildings, ramshackle business outposts, public memorials, and exotic old houses. Though Jodhpur is unique in that it is buttressed on both sides by large mountainous outcroppings, one crowned with a palace, and the other by the imposing Meherangarh fort. You can catch the particulars of the season by doing a survey of the farmer's carts, right now it's: mango and watermelon.
Otherwise I've begun work at GRAVIS and I'm finding it to be an educational experience. It's a really smoothly running, professional service organization with a strong mission and a business atmosphere. In fact, I have a desk in an AC room, I'm fed regularly, I have complete access to all manner of books and my "supervisor" never bothers me. Anyone know where I can get this kindof deal in the States?
But hey, let's backtrack a bit to the first day.
Monday morning I walked down the cow-lined streets of the Milk Men Colony to the three-tiered office and after a bit of waiting, met the director Dr. Prakash Tyagi. Smart, energetic, ascetic, direct, and kind. He posseses a great deal of gravity for a skinny dude. He gave me my initial project (a publication I have to research/write), told me that a desk was waiting in the library, and explained the logistics of the organization: be there 9AM sharp "not Indian standard time", leave at 6PM, come to his office when I'm requested, go to the field whenever anyone goes. Mornings start in the basement with an all-office secular prayer under the portraits of MK Gandhi, Vinoba Bhave, and Jayaprakash Narayan followed by a discussion/debate of current events.
I'm developing the ability to discern Hindi accents--much to my indulgence. The flux of visitors provides the soundscape. Some people have noticeably Punjabi, Harayani, or Marathi accents, others a more proper standard version (this is the one I understand the best), others Marwari-inflected, and then there's the Hindi spoken by the organization's veterans. These guys have weathered decades on the social work battlefield, making an empty salary and being driven solely on principle. Their Hindi is crisp, particular, enrapturing, verbose, eloquent and to me-- incomprehensible.
I'm having fun regardless.
They are wise and I admire them, so I'm trying my best to learn. And Shivaniji (my office mate, yes, we refer to everyone here as 'ji') patiently fields my ridiculously elementary questions ("Shivaniji, how do I say 'how'? what about 'what'?). I've read some really interesting books and I'll share thoughts on those soon. Also, expect more pictures and soon enough, vidoes!
(The Guest House, Durag Niwas, 8:30AM)
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