The night sky around our house is thickly pointillated with lightning bugs. Trees seem to shimmer. One or two make it into our room each night and Heather finds she must converse with and then warn them: "Oh, hey, little lightning bug! Hi there, lightning bug! Don't get hit by the ceiling fan, little lightning bug. [with increasing intensity] Don't get hit by the fan, lightning bug! STAY AWAY FROM THE FAN, LIGHTNING BUG!!!"
This morning, Heather put every chess piece in the kitchen sink and washed them by hand [see previous post], even cleaning out the gaps in the heads of the, what are they, Bishops? with her thumbnail and then gingerly placed them all out in the sun to dry.
There's a filthy, tick-ridden dog (I actually killed one of its ticks yesterday) at the entrance of the ashram where we do yoga. Heather, pretty damn allergic to dogs, has completely befriended it, scratching his dirty head for minutes each day. "Right hand, I scratched him with my right hand, gotta remember," she says to herself for future handwashing reference.
Heather: [somewhat pained] Now I have to send gifts to EVERYONE!
John: Why?
Heather: Because they'll like it!
John: There's something on your back. Turn around.
Heather: [panicked] Shit. Is it a tick?!! Aaaauuuuggggrrrrhhh! Is it a TICK??!!! Oooooohhhh!!
John: No, it's a piece of wheat germ. It's funny, I'm not that scared of ticks.
Heather: Me neither.
Heather: There are lots of people with more interesting lives than ours.
John: For example?
Heather: Well, say, a janitor...
Friday, August 31, 2007
Fragments
- Our house has two chess sets. Upon opening the first, we found every piece absolutely hairy with mold. The board of the second set is warped to such an extent that rooks topple right over. It is ridiculously humid here. Even the TV has mold on it, honest.
- I've been studying at my new tabla teacher's place for 4 to 6 hours per day. My legs are a bushel of ache. Progress is slow, but I'm being hooked up with tabla master Lachchu Maharaj for study in Varanasi (some of you have, eh hem, seen the video of him playing). To say he's my first choice is putting it mildly. It's probably the equivalent of a novice cellist studying with Yo yo. But such things are possible here. The dollar lubricates all. I'm intimidated, but stoked.
- There is a yoga class conducted every evening at dusk on a rooftop here in Rishikesh. The teachers are 10 years old. The students are between 8 and 10 years old. No body puts them up to this.
- Seems that there is not a single door in all of India that shuts properly.
- The clothing stores have the least flattering mannequins I could ever imagine. They're terrifying and I want to break them.
- We smoosh a few roaches per day and no longer worry about cleaning them up. There are legions of tiny-tiny blonde ants (they remind me too much of head lice) that carry away with remarkable efficiency anything that is dead.
- Private yoga lessons every morning is a luxury I never want to do without. The increase in my flexibility is astounding.
- I've been studying at my new tabla teacher's place for 4 to 6 hours per day. My legs are a bushel of ache. Progress is slow, but I'm being hooked up with tabla master Lachchu Maharaj for study in Varanasi (some of you have, eh hem, seen the video of him playing). To say he's my first choice is putting it mildly. It's probably the equivalent of a novice cellist studying with Yo yo. But such things are possible here. The dollar lubricates all. I'm intimidated, but stoked.
- There is a yoga class conducted every evening at dusk on a rooftop here in Rishikesh. The teachers are 10 years old. The students are between 8 and 10 years old. No body puts them up to this.
- Seems that there is not a single door in all of India that shuts properly.
- The clothing stores have the least flattering mannequins I could ever imagine. They're terrifying and I want to break them.
- We smoosh a few roaches per day and no longer worry about cleaning them up. There are legions of tiny-tiny blonde ants (they remind me too much of head lice) that carry away with remarkable efficiency anything that is dead.
- Private yoga lessons every morning is a luxury I never want to do without. The increase in my flexibility is astounding.
Second Impressions
"Caste, sactioned by the [Bhagavad] Gita with almost propagandist fervour, might be seen as part of the older Indian pragmatism, the 'life' of classical India. It has decayed and ossified with the society, and its corollary, function, has become all: the sweeper's inefficiency and the merchant's short-sighted ruthlessness are inevitable. It is not easy to get candidates for a recently instituted award for brave children. Children do not wish their parents to know that they have risked their lives to save others. It isn't that Indians are especially cowardly or have no admiration for courage. It is that bravery, the willingness to risk one's life, is the function of the soldier and no one else. Indians have been known to go on picnicking on a river bank while a stranger drowned. Every man is an island; each man to his function, his private contract with God. This is the realization of the Gita's selfless action. This is caste. In the beginning a no doubt useful division of labour in a rural society, it has now divorced function from social obligation, position from duties. It is inefficient and destructive; it has created a psychology which will frustrate all improving plans. It has led to the Indian passion for speech-making, for gestures and for symbolic action.
"Symbolic action: tree-planting week (seventy per cent of the trees planted die from lack of attention after the speeches), smallpox eradication week (one central minister is reported to have refused to be vaccinated for religious reasons, and vaccination certificates can be bought for a few shillings from various medical men), anti-fly week (declared in one state before the flies came), children's day (a correct speech by Mr Nehru about children on the front page of the newspaper and on the back page a report that free milk intended for poor chilren had found its way to the Calcutta open market), malaria eradication week (HELP ERADICATE MALARIA daubed, in English, on the walls of illiterate Hindi-speaking villages)."
"Symbolic action: tree-planting week (seventy per cent of the trees planted die from lack of attention after the speeches), smallpox eradication week (one central minister is reported to have refused to be vaccinated for religious reasons, and vaccination certificates can be bought for a few shillings from various medical men), anti-fly week (declared in one state before the flies came), children's day (a correct speech by Mr Nehru about children on the front page of the newspaper and on the back page a report that free milk intended for poor chilren had found its way to the Calcutta open market), malaria eradication week (HELP ERADICATE MALARIA daubed, in English, on the walls of illiterate Hindi-speaking villages)."
-p. 79-80, An Area of Darkness, V.S.Naipaul
I joked with John when we first arrived in Delhi that this was the futures. It reminded me of the set of Children of Men. Narrow cars, motorcycles, bicycles, speeding en masse through the streets. Hordes of people everywhere. Gutters filling up with plastic waste because there is no where else to put it. Cement buildings rising up into smog. Rushing, rushing, going nowhere, salesmen in your face, billboards in three languages--
But India is also the past. When walking a few days ago, I saw a small boy, naked, shitting in a river just before it joined the Ganges. Right on a rock, in plain sight. Water will wash the excrement away. Downstream in Haridwar, nightly, pilgrims drink this water by the cupful, water from the Mother Ganges, water that is clean because they cannot imagine it dirty. Because it is sacred. They see the small boy shitting. They see grown men and women shitting straight into the water every day. Still they bathe in its water (Hinduism requires a daily bath), they wash their laundry in it, they drink it, they protest that it is clean.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
A Medley
Tabla and weaving have something in common. Both are bound by some meter that is sensed but not quite apparent. Both set my mind spinning and turn me quite speechless.
John playing tabla:
Me in a salwar kamiz, with the homeowners, at the house that we are "borrowing" while they are absent:
And now, Sambhar soup, to eat with the Dosa:
In a medium saucepan, combine:
1 c. arahar dal (yellow lentils), rinsed
1/2 c. chopped pumpkin/winter squash
1 small (Thai) eggplant, chopped roughly
1 carrot, chopped
1 small onion, chopped
1 t. salt
1/2 t. turmeric
1 t. vegetable oil
2 c. water
Cook until the lentils are done. I'm not clear on how long this will take--in a pressure cooker, it takes maybe 20-25 minutes.
When cooked, add 1 T. Sambhar Masala (okay, maybe you can't get Sambhar Masala--I'll look at what's in it next time I have a box handy, but you can use curry powder and garam masala to substitute.) Bring to a boil, then simmer for another 20 minutes.
In the meantime, take:
2-3 T. oil
1 t. mustard seed (the dark brown kind)
1/2 t. cumin
1 dried red chili (or a bit of cayenne powder)
a pinch "hing" powder (okay, this might be hard to find too--look at Wikipedia's definition)
Put these in a small saucepan (or even a very large cooking spoon, over a gas burner), and roast until the mustard seeds begin to pop. Add quickly to Sambhar and cover (or the chili smoke might get to your lungs).
Coconut chutney to follow.....
John playing tabla:
Me in a salwar kamiz, with the homeowners, at the house that we are "borrowing" while they are absent:
And now, Sambhar soup, to eat with the Dosa:
In a medium saucepan, combine:
1 c. arahar dal (yellow lentils), rinsed
1/2 c. chopped pumpkin/winter squash
1 small (Thai) eggplant, chopped roughly
1 carrot, chopped
1 small onion, chopped
1 t. salt
1/2 t. turmeric
1 t. vegetable oil
2 c. water
Cook until the lentils are done. I'm not clear on how long this will take--in a pressure cooker, it takes maybe 20-25 minutes.
When cooked, add 1 T. Sambhar Masala (okay, maybe you can't get Sambhar Masala--I'll look at what's in it next time I have a box handy, but you can use curry powder and garam masala to substitute.) Bring to a boil, then simmer for another 20 minutes.
In the meantime, take:
2-3 T. oil
1 t. mustard seed (the dark brown kind)
1/2 t. cumin
1 dried red chili (or a bit of cayenne powder)
a pinch "hing" powder (okay, this might be hard to find too--look at Wikipedia's definition)
Put these in a small saucepan (or even a very large cooking spoon, over a gas burner), and roast until the mustard seeds begin to pop. Add quickly to Sambhar and cover (or the chili smoke might get to your lungs).
Coconut chutney to follow.....
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Portrait of Lalita, and how to make a Dosa
Lalita's flat in Rishikesh is set into a cliff face. Near bird's-eye view of the Ganges a few hundred feet below. Her view of the river and of the green peaks behind it make up for the size of her apartment, which makes a cheap studio in Manhattan seem palatial.
Lalita teaches cooking classes in Rishikesh. She also cuts hair. She waxes legs. She gives masages. Her English is better than that of the average Indian man.
"It was mistake that I am born Indian. I am supposed to be born American, U.K., someplace else."
She is teaching me how to cook a plethora of Indian dishes from North and South--the key, I am finding, is in adding the proper masala. There is meat masala, sambhar masala, chole masala, chai masala.... the list is endless. There are shops with shelves lined with varying hues of masalas.
Lalita is my age. She was born in Varanasi, married at 16 years of age. I don't know the details of their married life, only that the marriage was an arranged one. Maybe he beat her--whatever the case, her voice dripped sarcasm when she told me that "he was such a good husband"--that she had to leave him three years into the marriage. He refused to give her a divorce.
"No problem. We are separated. I will never have another husband, so no problem."
-------------
South Indian Masala Dosa
Part 1:
Take:
200 grams rice (not basmati)
50 grams urd dal (those are is: white lentils with black skins, also called Black Beluga Lentils, apparently)
Place in a bowl together, rinse, cover with plenty of water (they'll absorb a lot) and let them soak overnight.
A few hours before you want to make your dosa, take the softened rice and lentils and run the mixture through a blender or a food processor. Add a tablespoon of sugar. Add water as needed so that the mixture ends up with the consistency of pancake batter.
Part 2:
Boil 2 medium potatoes; remove skins. Mash roughly. In a small fry pan, heat 2-3 tablespoons of oil. Add to this 1-2 t. cumin1/2 t. turmeric, 1 t. salt. Stir for 1 minute, and then add the potatoes and fry for a couple of minutes.
Part 3:
Finely dice about 1/4 cup of red onion.
When ready to cook the dosa, add a teaspoon of salt to the batter, mix it in well, and heat up and oil a large fry pan or griddle. Make the dosa the way you might make a crepe--spread the batter with a spatula, or tilt the pan around to spread it out with gravity. add a few drops of oil to the top, especially to the edges to help with flipping. Flip when ready; spread the potato mixture and sprinkle a little diced onion on top. Ready to eat!
(Sambhar and Coconut Chutney coming later....)
Lalita teaches cooking classes in Rishikesh. She also cuts hair. She waxes legs. She gives masages. Her English is better than that of the average Indian man.
"It was mistake that I am born Indian. I am supposed to be born American, U.K., someplace else."
She is teaching me how to cook a plethora of Indian dishes from North and South--the key, I am finding, is in adding the proper masala. There is meat masala, sambhar masala, chole masala, chai masala.... the list is endless. There are shops with shelves lined with varying hues of masalas.
Lalita is my age. She was born in Varanasi, married at 16 years of age. I don't know the details of their married life, only that the marriage was an arranged one. Maybe he beat her--whatever the case, her voice dripped sarcasm when she told me that "he was such a good husband"--that she had to leave him three years into the marriage. He refused to give her a divorce.
"No problem. We are separated. I will never have another husband, so no problem."
-------------
South Indian Masala Dosa
Part 1:
Take:
200 grams rice (not basmati)
50 grams urd dal (those are is: white lentils with black skins, also called Black Beluga Lentils, apparently)
Place in a bowl together, rinse, cover with plenty of water (they'll absorb a lot) and let them soak overnight.
A few hours before you want to make your dosa, take the softened rice and lentils and run the mixture through a blender or a food processor. Add a tablespoon of sugar. Add water as needed so that the mixture ends up with the consistency of pancake batter.
Part 2:
Boil 2 medium potatoes; remove skins. Mash roughly. In a small fry pan, heat 2-3 tablespoons of oil. Add to this 1-2 t. cumin1/2 t. turmeric, 1 t. salt. Stir for 1 minute, and then add the potatoes and fry for a couple of minutes.
Part 3:
Finely dice about 1/4 cup of red onion.
When ready to cook the dosa, add a teaspoon of salt to the batter, mix it in well, and heat up and oil a large fry pan or griddle. Make the dosa the way you might make a crepe--spread the batter with a spatula, or tilt the pan around to spread it out with gravity. add a few drops of oil to the top, especially to the edges to help with flipping. Flip when ready; spread the potato mixture and sprinkle a little diced onion on top. Ready to eat!
(Sambhar and Coconut Chutney coming later....)
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Monsoon Flood
Yesterday, the fattest, heaviest rain I've ever seen. And it came down for hours. Fortunately, I was stuck at my tabla teacher's place and so just practiced and practiced in fugue counterpoint to the raindrops coming in the window and splatting against my back. I ventured home, hoping Heather wasn't worrying too much about me, during a lull in the downpour. The entire mile or so to our hotel is downhill and the streets funnel toward the lone pedestrian bridge. I couldn't believe the water. Thigh-deep and racing downhill, it really was a dangerous river in many places. As I struggled to stay on my feet through the dark brown water, I winced at the thought of all the cow, dog, monkey, and human dung I'd seen covering these streets all week. Cars steaming and stalling-out, drenched hindu pilgrims fighting their way uphill while the fast, heavy, filthy water crested against their chests. One small boy sat on his father's shoulders singing and laughing and absolutely loving the deluge, which made me smile hugely and remember how excited I was whenever our basement flooded when I was a child. A female Japanese tourist passed me, her face, near tears, showing utter despair and disgust, her dress hiked up as high as was decent. I smiled at her, too, glad that I'm not as obsessed about cleanliness. That said, I did take a long shower immediately upon my return, shuddering occasionally.
Home Sweet
Our yoga teacher also happens to be the care-taker of his ashram's shrine / medicinal plant garden which is nestled in a gorgeous forest on the edge of town. He is a sweet man, very talkative, with an advanced degree in Chemistry that he seems to have renounced in order to live a life of solitude and contemplation in the forest. He (we still don't know his name, somehow) invited us to his home (the shrine/med. garden) for lunch. It is an amazing spot: old stone walls and outbuildings beside a clear river, bright moss everywhere, birds and moths. The whole thing feels like a Japanese garden. Over lunch (a spicy South Indian biryani of eggplant, beans, and tomatoes served on the ground on fresh-cut banana leaves) we talked about a crazy range of subjects. Strange to find a monk living in a forest who is able to lithely discuss equations of quantum physics, contemporary politics, and financial planning while relating it all to his spiritual path. He is utterly accepting of our non-spirituality and said even tabla playing can be suitable worship. He has promised us a hike up to a shrine several thousand feet above the city where, on a clear day, we will easily be able to see the snow-chapeau'd Himalayas very near by.
What's more, he found us a house. And we can stay for free! Tomorrow we move into a nice house (with a kitchen, I smell Himalayan apple pie already!) on the edge of town, surrounded by rice paddies and cinderblock school rooms. We'll have it to ourselves, since the owner (a 70-year old ex-mining engineer married to a woman who can't be more than 35) will be going out of town for the next 10 days. Serendipity-doo-dah. All we have to do in exchange is sweep out the meditation room and light incense each morning for Shiva or Krishna or whomever. Oh, and we had to tell him we were married. Which feels funny. 'Cuz we're not, ya know.
Today, I saw wild peacocks and the tiniest frogs ever. I realized I was spoiled by my American tabla lessons (the Indian teaching style seems rather laissez-faire, so far, and my teacher here is young and proud), but I'm making progress and can practice on a shitty pair of tabla whenever I want for free. Overall, very, very good things seem to be happening to us; I blame Heather. I hope we don't get too attached to Rishikesh, since gritty Varanasi is only a few weeks away...
What's more, he found us a house. And we can stay for free! Tomorrow we move into a nice house (with a kitchen, I smell Himalayan apple pie already!) on the edge of town, surrounded by rice paddies and cinderblock school rooms. We'll have it to ourselves, since the owner (a 70-year old ex-mining engineer married to a woman who can't be more than 35) will be going out of town for the next 10 days. Serendipity-doo-dah. All we have to do in exchange is sweep out the meditation room and light incense each morning for Shiva or Krishna or whomever. Oh, and we had to tell him we were married. Which feels funny. 'Cuz we're not, ya know.
Today, I saw wild peacocks and the tiniest frogs ever. I realized I was spoiled by my American tabla lessons (the Indian teaching style seems rather laissez-faire, so far, and my teacher here is young and proud), but I'm making progress and can practice on a shitty pair of tabla whenever I want for free. Overall, very, very good things seem to be happening to us; I blame Heather. I hope we don't get too attached to Rishikesh, since gritty Varanasi is only a few weeks away...
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Morning Window-scape
The window of our hotel room in Lachsman Jula faces North. We look out through screen and criss-crossed ironwork onto a small balcony with more criss-crossed ironwork. Every day around the same time, a boy bangs our windows closed so that he can get by. He pours water along the balcony and sweeps it away with the dirt that has collected. Always there is the same amount of dirt. We open the windows again later.
Beyond the balcony there is a cement wall. Moss grows on it in streaks of frozen rain. The bottom is dark with damp seeping up.
There are buildings in the distance rising against a grey sky. A sign for the Jaipur Inn. A sign for Western Union. There is laundry strung up between a tree and a window ledge.
In this place everything slants toward the river. From the window that means that the land runs down to the left, or Westward. Flat surfaces are mostly man made: our own floor; the cement steps beyond the green-streaked wall; the street below.
Beyond the balcony there is a cement wall. Moss grows on it in streaks of frozen rain. The bottom is dark with damp seeping up.
There are buildings in the distance rising against a grey sky. A sign for the Jaipur Inn. A sign for Western Union. There is laundry strung up between a tree and a window ledge.
In this place everything slants toward the river. From the window that means that the land runs down to the left, or Westward. Flat surfaces are mostly man made: our own floor; the cement steps beyond the green-streaked wall; the street below.
Heather writes John: Moments from 20/8/07
John lying on his stomach at a slight diagonal across the foot of the bed: it is morning. He is basking in the breeze from our ceiling fan.
John walking ahead of me, in shirt and pants I built for him: we have learned to slow our gait for the heat. Whenever his shirt flutters against his back, the silk is instantly sweat-soaked darker.
John defending our mangos against theif-monkeys: I yell; he swings with the umbrella, after one monkey has ripped the plastic bag and spilled them over the cement. The umbrella hits the monkey hard enough to bend its top--the monkey recovers fast enough to pick up a mango and run. We recover the rest.
"It's strange hitting a monkey. Almost like hitting a person."
John sitting behind me, watching me try and fail to upload photos at an internet cafe: I am sinking into my frustration. Everytime I turn to him he smiles back at my sour-lime face.
John catching my finger on one of the pendulum swings of my arm: this is the edge of the bravery of our public affections in India.
John walking alone to his first tabla lesson in India: I imagine him--he leads with his chest.
John returning 'home': he searches my face for any sour-lime residue. We get to talking of dinner--
"I'm afraid Little Italy is going to be ninety-rupee ponies..."
--we dream up five million-dollar ideas. Then we go.
John at my right side: Who falls asleep first? Maybe me. I see his silhouette breathing against light filtered through the curtained window.
John walking ahead of me, in shirt and pants I built for him: we have learned to slow our gait for the heat. Whenever his shirt flutters against his back, the silk is instantly sweat-soaked darker.
John defending our mangos against theif-monkeys: I yell; he swings with the umbrella, after one monkey has ripped the plastic bag and spilled them over the cement. The umbrella hits the monkey hard enough to bend its top--the monkey recovers fast enough to pick up a mango and run. We recover the rest.
"It's strange hitting a monkey. Almost like hitting a person."
John sitting behind me, watching me try and fail to upload photos at an internet cafe: I am sinking into my frustration. Everytime I turn to him he smiles back at my sour-lime face.
John catching my finger on one of the pendulum swings of my arm: this is the edge of the bravery of our public affections in India.
John walking alone to his first tabla lesson in India: I imagine him--he leads with his chest.
John returning 'home': he searches my face for any sour-lime residue. We get to talking of dinner--
"I'm afraid Little Italy is going to be ninety-rupee ponies..."
--we dream up five million-dollar ideas. Then we go.
John at my right side: Who falls asleep first? Maybe me. I see his silhouette breathing against light filtered through the curtained window.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
People: Two Encounters with Sadhus
[The setting is Rishikesh, India, where the Ganges River leaves the Himalayas for the lowlands and meanders toward the sea.]
Scene 1
[We are returning to town from a swimming excursion at a nearby waterfall. John, myself, and German girl sit in the back seat; the driver and a barefoot Indian man with long, graying dreadlocks sit in front. The man is tall, with a striking face. His clothing flows on him, color of saffron.]
(After some minutes of silence.)
John: Sir, are you a sadhu?
Both driver and Sadhu: Yes.
Sadhu: I think you understand more than they. (he gestures at myself and the German.)
John: (pause) Are you going to Haridwar for the Khumb Mela?
Sadhu: Yes.
John: In 2010?
Sadhu: Yes. We have to wait for the time.
John: (after a pause) Is it true that most sadhus smoke hashish?
Sadhu: (shaking head, becomes reticent) Sorry.
John: Ap ka nam kya he?
Sadhu: Oh! Ap ka nam kya he?! (begins speaking Hindi quickly and furiously)
John: I don't understand.
Sadhu: (continues in Hindi)
John: I don't understand.
Sadhu: You don't understand? You don't understand? Why do you speak of Hindu things when you don't speak Hindi?
John: (pause) Where did you learn English so well?
(Sadhu turns away, does not respond.)
Scene 2
[On the West bank, cement steps lead down to an 84-year-old footbridge strung 450 feet across the muddy and swollen water. Darkness is recently fallen.]
(John ascends the steps; a sadhu stands at the top. He is a tiny man, maybe reaching five feet. He has the frailty of a scarecrow; his bones seem like bird bones. He sways to a faint breeze. A stronger wind would whisk him away.)
John: Namaste.
Sadhu: Ah! Namaste!
(The sadhu puts his hands in prayer position and bows vigorously, beaming.)
John: (points to himself) America.
Sadhu: Ah! Rajastan!
(They stand awkwardly and watch the Ganges swirl past under the lamplight. John is searching for any avenue that might lead to common ground. Minutes pass. The sadhu continues to smile.)
John: (pointing at river) Ma Ganga.
Sadhu: Ah, Ma Ganga! (Smiling and clasping his hands, he wobbles his head in the universal Indian sign of yes, no, maybe, okay, good, etc.)
[Lights out.]
Scene 1
[We are returning to town from a swimming excursion at a nearby waterfall. John, myself, and German girl sit in the back seat; the driver and a barefoot Indian man with long, graying dreadlocks sit in front. The man is tall, with a striking face. His clothing flows on him, color of saffron.]
(After some minutes of silence.)
John: Sir, are you a sadhu?
Both driver and Sadhu: Yes.
Sadhu: I think you understand more than they. (he gestures at myself and the German.)
John: (pause) Are you going to Haridwar for the Khumb Mela?
Sadhu: Yes.
John: In 2010?
Sadhu: Yes. We have to wait for the time.
John: (after a pause) Is it true that most sadhus smoke hashish?
Sadhu: (shaking head, becomes reticent) Sorry.
John: Ap ka nam kya he?
Sadhu: Oh! Ap ka nam kya he?! (begins speaking Hindi quickly and furiously)
John: I don't understand.
Sadhu: (continues in Hindi)
John: I don't understand.
Sadhu: You don't understand? You don't understand? Why do you speak of Hindu things when you don't speak Hindi?
John: (pause) Where did you learn English so well?
(Sadhu turns away, does not respond.)
Scene 2
[On the West bank, cement steps lead down to an 84-year-old footbridge strung 450 feet across the muddy and swollen water. Darkness is recently fallen.]
(John ascends the steps; a sadhu stands at the top. He is a tiny man, maybe reaching five feet. He has the frailty of a scarecrow; his bones seem like bird bones. He sways to a faint breeze. A stronger wind would whisk him away.)
John: Namaste.
Sadhu: Ah! Namaste!
(The sadhu puts his hands in prayer position and bows vigorously, beaming.)
John: (points to himself) America.
Sadhu: Ah! Rajastan!
(They stand awkwardly and watch the Ganges swirl past under the lamplight. John is searching for any avenue that might lead to common ground. Minutes pass. The sadhu continues to smile.)
John: (pointing at river) Ma Ganga.
Sadhu: Ah, Ma Ganga! (Smiling and clasping his hands, he wobbles his head in the universal Indian sign of yes, no, maybe, okay, good, etc.)
[Lights out.]
On Difficulty
I arrived in Ghana already five years ago. I think I wanted to break myself—not melodramatically—open my eyes wider, hyperextend my mind. In the end, what can I say? It was difficult: I grew. That year left deep and clear impressions on me. I was humbled. I worked hard, I sweated hard—but.
I confess that I devoured books. If anyone has time enough to finish War and Peace in two weeks, her life must be called a life of leisure.
These next months will be hard. We will be lonely; we will be frustrated; we will be sick; we will sweat and work hard. Our brains will be constantly overloaded with the newness and strangeness of this brief home.
Toil and hardship remain foreign to my experience. Difficulty is of our own choosing--has always been. A difficult life is utterly different than difficult music, difficult writing, difficult art.
Here, a thought problem: a child is born and raised in the wealthy suburbs of Chicago or Detroit; at age ten, he or she moves to the overwhelming neighborhood of Pahar Ganj in New Delhi. Another child is born in Pahar Ganj, and moves at the same age to a wealthy suburb in the States. For whom will the transition be the most difficult?
Rishikesh: Flora/Fauna.
This afternoon, we stopped dead in our tracks upon seeing an enormous fruit bat hanging upside-down from some very low powerlines. "So strange to see one like that in the daytime," Heather said, knowing these bats from her time in Ghana. I was thrilled to see one. We walked right below it and realized that its body was touching two wires; electrocuted. Next to this corpse were a set of identical feet, still gripping the wire, but stripped of their body. These powerlines are like a perfect fruit bat trap.
Not 100 yards away from the bat-circuit we came upon a half-dozen bicolor crows, one of which was pulling matter from deep within the eyesocket of a just-dead calf. And immediately around the corner, a dog eating another dog. Gleaming ribs and a strange pinkness peeking out from beneath the mottled brown coat. I made some comment about this spot being death-alley. Then, at a small, open-air cafe (which somehow felt more like an opium den) hidden in wet jungle, Heather came a fraction of an inch from consuming a deep-fried cockroach which was attached to the bottom of her veggie pakora. "Don't make that face," I said, realizing something was wrong with her food. "What would make me make this face?" she said, near retch. "A hair? Nuts?" I guessed. "Worse."
But the rest of Rishikesh is very lovely, really. I swear. We had 2 hours of private yoga this morning for $2.50, the mountains are incredible, the heat is tolerable, the mosquitoes are minimal, there's great food and wonderful people. I'm holding out for a glimpse of the rare gangetic dolphin. Hard to believe dolphins live in this river.
Not 100 yards away from the bat-circuit we came upon a half-dozen bicolor crows, one of which was pulling matter from deep within the eyesocket of a just-dead calf. And immediately around the corner, a dog eating another dog. Gleaming ribs and a strange pinkness peeking out from beneath the mottled brown coat. I made some comment about this spot being death-alley. Then, at a small, open-air cafe (which somehow felt more like an opium den) hidden in wet jungle, Heather came a fraction of an inch from consuming a deep-fried cockroach which was attached to the bottom of her veggie pakora. "Don't make that face," I said, realizing something was wrong with her food. "What would make me make this face?" she said, near retch. "A hair? Nuts?" I guessed. "Worse."
But the rest of Rishikesh is very lovely, really. I swear. We had 2 hours of private yoga this morning for $2.50, the mountains are incredible, the heat is tolerable, the mosquitoes are minimal, there's great food and wonderful people. I'm holding out for a glimpse of the rare gangetic dolphin. Hard to believe dolphins live in this river.
Friday, August 17, 2007
Haridwar: Landscape
4-hour train ride north to Haridwar. Fecundity everywhere. Swamps and forests and acres of fetid slums surrounded by colorful garbage. Haridwar itself is a holy city (no alcohol, huge ceremonies on the river every night) in the foothills where the sacred river, Ma Ganga, first leaves the Himalayas. We glimpsed the chai-colored waters from a lovely cable-car ride up to a shrine. It is a beautiful river made swollen and roiling by the monsoon (heaviest rain in 30 years, we were told this morning). The mountains, too, are beautiful; Jungly, steep-sloped, peppered with red-faced/arsed macaque monkeys, and given incredible depth by the ubiquitous mists. Below, the river bank supports a 100ft. tall statue of Shiva which is far more disarming (ha) than I expected. There is also a human-size statue of the figure Mother Ganga on the bank which, due to the floods, is neck-deep and cutting a white wake in the dun water. Utterly startling. And a surreal parallel to the dead, white hog which had run aground in the center of the creek that feeds the Ganges.
When I wrote poems more regularly, I remember longing for such intense imagery in the world around me. Now it's overwhelming. On walking back to our hotel from the evening's riverside fire ceremonies (Aarti), I experienced sensory overload to a degree I never thought possible. Imagine thousands of people streaming down a narrow, shit-paved street in the rain. The street lights go out for minutes at a time and there are cars, scooters, moto-and-bike rickshaws, buses and trucks (many with no lights) blaring their horns at you as they speed through the crowd. Hawkers on their stalls calling for you to buy this bag of decorated coconuts or this glow-in-the-dark helicopter (it really flies!). Dozens and dozens of men stopping in their tracks to ogle your lovely, rain-soaked girlfriend. A group of men restraining a screaming woman and then dragging her down the street and forcing her into a rickshaw. Begging children and begging holy men and mosquitoes and the crowd pushing you through the area where you saw people defecating this morning and you are wearing sandals. Sleep comes easily.
When I wrote poems more regularly, I remember longing for such intense imagery in the world around me. Now it's overwhelming. On walking back to our hotel from the evening's riverside fire ceremonies (Aarti), I experienced sensory overload to a degree I never thought possible. Imagine thousands of people streaming down a narrow, shit-paved street in the rain. The street lights go out for minutes at a time and there are cars, scooters, moto-and-bike rickshaws, buses and trucks (many with no lights) blaring their horns at you as they speed through the crowd. Hawkers on their stalls calling for you to buy this bag of decorated coconuts or this glow-in-the-dark helicopter (it really flies!). Dozens and dozens of men stopping in their tracks to ogle your lovely, rain-soaked girlfriend. A group of men restraining a screaming woman and then dragging her down the street and forcing her into a rickshaw. Begging children and begging holy men and mosquitoes and the crowd pushing you through the area where you saw people defecating this morning and you are wearing sandals. Sleep comes easily.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
New Delhi: Flora and Fauna
Today they flew kites in Delhi. By the thousand. We noticed them at breakfast, and the numbers seemed to multiply each time we glanced up. They're cheaper than fireworks, after all, to celebrate the Independence. Pigeons flew low to the rooftops; how do they miss the invisible, cutting threads? Intrepid birds. An eagle circled, confused by the myriad false prey.
When we reached the Red Fort, the ceremonies were finished, but hundreds of Indian eagles remained, circling high above the fort and its empty lawns. "Maybe they're here because there are no kites flying," said John. We walked East, towards the river, past thriving ficuses, trees that resembled cottonwood, trees that resembled white walnut. One tree dangled its flowers down to us from its branches on long stems. I don't know tree names here. For all I know, they haven't names in English anyway--so.
We crossed over the Yamuna River today before catching a motor rickshaw back to Pahar Ganj. I thought we'd left the egrets back in Maine, but here they are, too, fishing in the floodplain turned marsh by the monsoon. Nearby, a half dozen water buffalo stood motionless in neck-deep water. A horse with hollowed ribs picked its way along the bank lined with rubble, pulling behind a man in a cart.
Life is roiling and teeming here. We picked our way back to our hotel, past people and cows and sleeping dogs, dirt and smells of incense and urine and spice. And tonight, the pigeons nesting outside of our window will coo me to sleep.
When we reached the Red Fort, the ceremonies were finished, but hundreds of Indian eagles remained, circling high above the fort and its empty lawns. "Maybe they're here because there are no kites flying," said John. We walked East, towards the river, past thriving ficuses, trees that resembled cottonwood, trees that resembled white walnut. One tree dangled its flowers down to us from its branches on long stems. I don't know tree names here. For all I know, they haven't names in English anyway--so.
We crossed over the Yamuna River today before catching a motor rickshaw back to Pahar Ganj. I thought we'd left the egrets back in Maine, but here they are, too, fishing in the floodplain turned marsh by the monsoon. Nearby, a half dozen water buffalo stood motionless in neck-deep water. A horse with hollowed ribs picked its way along the bank lined with rubble, pulling behind a man in a cart.
Life is roiling and teeming here. We picked our way back to our hotel, past people and cows and sleeping dogs, dirt and smells of incense and urine and spice. And tonight, the pigeons nesting outside of our window will coo me to sleep.
Independence Day, Delhi: People
Begging child performers swept through Paharganj today. They are very small (in need of better nourishment?), dark, filthy, brazen, and somehow very beautiful. We were walking down the scorching street when, practically beneath my feet, a barefoot 4-year old girl began turning inhuman flips (ala Slinky) while contorting and pulling her entire body through the hoop created by one of her tiny hands clutching one of her tiny legs. It did not look real. Her 6-year old brother, sporting a fake moustache, accompanied her with his exquisitely raw and remarkable drumming. Their act was utterly amazing and stunk of exploitation. As they tugged on my pants pleading for rupees, I scanned the busy street for someone who might be putting them up to this, their "beggarmaster".
I suppose the roots of circus, public spectacle, and perhaps all performance arts are thusly tangled in money (ah, the children have just now performed their act again outside the glass door of this air conditioned internet cafe, waving forlornly at any one of us who makes the mistake of glancing their way, such ludicrous juxtapositions here). Over the past decade, I've watched myself attempt to eschew any commodification of my arts. I've held to the notion that any art driven by money rather than valid experience and transformation (of audience, artist, media...) is no art at all. The result for me thus far? Confusion, relative poverty, and baskets upon baskets of joy. But then, joy doesn't fill my stomach with food, and sometimes I wonder if my ego is my beggarmaster.
A few parting notes:
Uh, where are all the women? I swear there must be 10 Indian men for every woman on the street.
In celebration of Independence day, fully grown men have been gleefully flying kites (thousands & thousands of kites) from rooftops all across the city today. Incredible.
Outside the fenced-off Independence day festivities at the massive Red Fort, we were standing in a crowd of people when everyone ran in absolute terror from a lone, approaching police motorcycle. Scary and strange.
I suppose the roots of circus, public spectacle, and perhaps all performance arts are thusly tangled in money (ah, the children have just now performed their act again outside the glass door of this air conditioned internet cafe, waving forlornly at any one of us who makes the mistake of glancing their way, such ludicrous juxtapositions here). Over the past decade, I've watched myself attempt to eschew any commodification of my arts. I've held to the notion that any art driven by money rather than valid experience and transformation (of audience, artist, media...) is no art at all. The result for me thus far? Confusion, relative poverty, and baskets upon baskets of joy. But then, joy doesn't fill my stomach with food, and sometimes I wonder if my ego is my beggarmaster.
A few parting notes:
Uh, where are all the women? I swear there must be 10 Indian men for every woman on the street.
In celebration of Independence day, fully grown men have been gleefully flying kites (thousands & thousands of kites) from rooftops all across the city today. Incredible.
Outside the fenced-off Independence day festivities at the massive Red Fort, we were standing in a crowd of people when everyone ran in absolute terror from a lone, approaching police motorcycle. Scary and strange.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Paharganj, Delhi, Day 1
Hotel Namaskar ($12/night) synopsis: I had to urinate in the middle of the night and was forced to dance to keep the tiny bathroom roaches from climbing my legs. Alternately, Heather kept the light off while she peed; smart. In and out of sleep the rest of the night, I admired the highly metered and continuous stutter-step of what I thought was a large cow walking back and forth past our window (Heather thought it was the faucet dripping loudly). Turns out it was just our ceiling fan knocking romantically against its housing.
Obviously, it is insanely hot here. Less obviously, we watched petite and gorgeous urban eagles fly and preen themselves from our Nepali rooftop breakfast cafe.
Overheard in a miniscule subterranean cafe this afternoon: "Paharganj is the shithole of Delhi." Yep, but we really like it.
Obviously, it is insanely hot here. Less obviously, we watched petite and gorgeous urban eagles fly and preen themselves from our Nepali rooftop breakfast cafe.
Overheard in a miniscule subterranean cafe this afternoon: "Paharganj is the shithole of Delhi." Yep, but we really like it.
Saturday, August 11, 2007
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