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.

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.

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.

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...

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...

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.