Sarah asked:
"What's betelnut? Is that what stains the half mile strip of Devon Ave between Western and California [Chicago,IL]?"
Betel nut (Areca Catechu) provides a mildly euphoric stimulating effect. But don't get your hopes up, it's also classified as a human carcinogen, though studies seem to be of low quality and rarely focus only on the nut (it's usually consumed with tobacco, calcium paste to help extract the stimulating alkaloids, and a bunch of flavorings). Strangely, betel nut and the betel leaf it's wrapped in to make Paan are not at all botanically related. Criminy, almost all Indian males of every stripe from homeless richshaw wallas to university professors to court magistrates chew the stuff constantly. It seriously compromises the teeth and gums.
And, yes, as expectorant it stains the streets (walls, toilets, teeth, we've even seen one unlucky dog) an unappetizing shade of red. I had my first and only Paan Masala on Devon Avenue with Phil some years ago.
Scott asked:
"Do you guys know if you can you bring betelnut back to the States or is it verboten hier? Always been curious."
Wiki answered:
"In the United States, betel nut is not a controlled or specially taxed substance and may be found in some Asian grocery stores. However, importation of betel in a form other than whole or carved kernels of nuts can be stopped at the discretion of US Customs officers on the grounds of food, agricultural, or medicinal drug violations. Such actions by Customs are very rare."
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Ganga Bath
[John and I have fought over whether to publish this post for a month now.... after small editing and his continued good health, he relents....]
"People do not understand the meaning of Guru Shishya Parampara. It is imperative to serve the Guru with all one's heart. I would sit and massage my guru's feet for hours and when he was happy, he would teach me a new composition." -Kishan Maharaj
We two are not spiritual people. The extents of my spirituality may be outlined by a mild form of superstition, a general and persistent awe of the world about me, and my curiosity in the still-incomprehensible branes of String Theory. John is of a reassuringly similar mind. But India demands recognition of, if not devotion to, its irrefutable spirituality. And if you choose to go deeper into the culture--for example, become a disciple according to old Indian tradition--your guru becomes your unquestionable spiritual adviser. "Do I pray first to my guru or first to my god?" mused Sushiri Mehta, rhetorically. "I pray first to my guru, because it was he who led me to my god." But how can we understand this? The best we can do is respect it as best we know how, and go deeper.
Still, when John's guruji commanded that he bathe in the Ganga River, I argued against it for days. Nevermind that it washes away your sins.
Tuesday we wake. On the roof of a neighboring house we spy perched one peacock and two peahens, sunning themselves. The day is already shimmering with heat. At 8:30AM we are walking, river and sun at our left. We see one incredible creature--it looks like the wild offspring of deer and horse. It is long necked, skittish, with a cropped crest of a mane running down its spine. A small child chased it down the bank and out of sight.
At nine we have reached the Southern-most ghat that we know, upstream from the miles of shit-strewn bank that defines the Eastern border of the city. 500 million people live in the Ganga River basin, and we are somewhere in the midst of these millions. We are downstream from hundreds and hundreds of miles of shit-strewn banks. Then add industrial waste to raw sewage, all of it flowing seaward. But--yes, I know--with one's guruji one mustn't argue; one mustn't lie.
I stand on the steps, five feet up from the water's edge. Sweat is already running down between my breasts and shoulder blades, making my forehead slick. The water is the color of clay and smells like the marsh in my Dad's backyard. John strips to his underwear and wades in. I am still arguing in my head. He wades in up to the neck in this opaque water, then climbs out and tells me that there were tiny fish nibbling at his shins--"if they live here, then I can visit for a minute." In and out, and in the end, he does not dissolve. We go home and John takes a real bath. A few days later, he develops a rather anti-climactic head cold.
I do not admonish guruji when I see him. There are people who drink the Ganga's grey waters every day.
"People do not understand the meaning of Guru Shishya Parampara. It is imperative to serve the Guru with all one's heart. I would sit and massage my guru's feet for hours and when he was happy, he would teach me a new composition." -Kishan Maharaj
We two are not spiritual people. The extents of my spirituality may be outlined by a mild form of superstition, a general and persistent awe of the world about me, and my curiosity in the still-incomprehensible branes of String Theory. John is of a reassuringly similar mind. But India demands recognition of, if not devotion to, its irrefutable spirituality. And if you choose to go deeper into the culture--for example, become a disciple according to old Indian tradition--your guru becomes your unquestionable spiritual adviser. "Do I pray first to my guru or first to my god?" mused Sushiri Mehta, rhetorically. "I pray first to my guru, because it was he who led me to my god." But how can we understand this? The best we can do is respect it as best we know how, and go deeper.
Still, when John's guruji commanded that he bathe in the Ganga River, I argued against it for days. Nevermind that it washes away your sins.
Tuesday we wake. On the roof of a neighboring house we spy perched one peacock and two peahens, sunning themselves. The day is already shimmering with heat. At 8:30AM we are walking, river and sun at our left. We see one incredible creature--it looks like the wild offspring of deer and horse. It is long necked, skittish, with a cropped crest of a mane running down its spine. A small child chased it down the bank and out of sight.
At nine we have reached the Southern-most ghat that we know, upstream from the miles of shit-strewn bank that defines the Eastern border of the city. 500 million people live in the Ganga River basin, and we are somewhere in the midst of these millions. We are downstream from hundreds and hundreds of miles of shit-strewn banks. Then add industrial waste to raw sewage, all of it flowing seaward. But--yes, I know--with one's guruji one mustn't argue; one mustn't lie.
I stand on the steps, five feet up from the water's edge. Sweat is already running down between my breasts and shoulder blades, making my forehead slick. The water is the color of clay and smells like the marsh in my Dad's backyard. John strips to his underwear and wades in. I am still arguing in my head. He wades in up to the neck in this opaque water, then climbs out and tells me that there were tiny fish nibbling at his shins--"if they live here, then I can visit for a minute." In and out, and in the end, he does not dissolve. We go home and John takes a real bath. A few days later, he develops a rather anti-climactic head cold.
I do not admonish guruji when I see him. There are people who drink the Ganga's grey waters every day.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Late at night, crowded street, six children with wooden, shoebox-sized battery packs strapped to their heads. Twin flourescent light tubes protrude 54" straight up from each of the battery packs. The children are walking single file through a festival crowd.
Outside the barbershop, 30 men gather around a 6" black&white TV to catch the cricket match.
Heather greets the baby water buffalo on our street every morning.
I went to the barber, finally. I was terrified, nearly nauseated, but I think he did a good job. Haircuts here end with an amazingly strenuous upper-body massage.
The water we specially ordered smelled terrible and had mosquito larva in it.
We live in a city of 1.2 million people, a city without a public library. The literacy rate here is about 60% at best (strikingly lower for women).
There's also no contemporary dance company in Varanasi, but I think I can do something about that.
Outside the barbershop, 30 men gather around a 6" black&white TV to catch the cricket match.
Heather greets the baby water buffalo on our street every morning.
I went to the barber, finally. I was terrified, nearly nauseated, but I think he did a good job. Haircuts here end with an amazingly strenuous upper-body massage.
The water we specially ordered smelled terrible and had mosquito larva in it.
We live in a city of 1.2 million people, a city without a public library. The literacy rate here is about 60% at best (strikingly lower for women).
There's also no contemporary dance company in Varanasi, but I think I can do something about that.
Durga Puja (do not read if squeamish!)
On Sunday we were nearly trampled by a giant silver goddess Durga, radiating out silver doilies from her many bloodied palms, and carried on a litter of bamboo poles. Before her went two bicycle carts--one for a wall of speakers, and the other for the massive diesel generator needed to power the speakers and light the silver giantess appropriately. The speakers in turn powered crowds of throbbing teenage boys.
We walked to the river. Other gods set in plaster stood looking out over the water: Ganesh, Shiva, Kali. Men were preparing a way through the boats to the open river, into which the bloody-palmed, silver goddess would plunge.
We walked North to the burning ghat. One month here and I hadn't been there yet--we watched as two bodies were unwrapped of their plastic-golden fineries, reduced to bundles of white cotton. And then the wood was piled, one stack big and one small, both over bright embers left from the last cremations. The families lifted the dead, and placed each on its pyre--knees together hidden inside white cotton, they might have been as big around as my elbows together. That small bundle, she must have been a tiny little lady. More wood is laid on top, and then straw is pushed under; it touches the coals; fires smolder, sputter, take. The smell is woodsmoke, simple. The wind blew it straight into my shawl and mouth and eyes.
We left then, to gaze at the stars (Orion with its flickering-red Beteljuice, Caseopeia, the Seven Sisters) all cupped in an off-center circle of sky, ringed around by haze and light of our city. A temple listed quietly into the Ganga in a pool of flowered malas. In small clusters, men returned from the festivities and all descended to the water. We could hear splashes of them jumping in, swimming a few feet out to the boats, and coming back in, newly absolved of sin.
The bodies were burning when we walked South again to Manikarnika Ghat. The families had left, and the fire tenders were there alone, anonymous with rags wrapped about their heads with only a slit left for their eyes. Flora, narrating--"Oh, see how he is lifting the body--oh, they break the body! See how they break the body! But they must do it; they know how. Now we will see the head...." Flames came, and the cotton that had been untouched now burned, and there was a human head engulfed in flame. "It is our hell," said John. And you could pretend that the figure was wax. But the smell was of flesh, of burning flesh--and the sound was not the sound of wood burning. We stood and watched the shine of the man's face (calm) turn to black and the smell was too much and we wended our way back to the main street and caught rickshaws home to bed.
We walked to the river. Other gods set in plaster stood looking out over the water: Ganesh, Shiva, Kali. Men were preparing a way through the boats to the open river, into which the bloody-palmed, silver goddess would plunge.
We walked North to the burning ghat. One month here and I hadn't been there yet--we watched as two bodies were unwrapped of their plastic-golden fineries, reduced to bundles of white cotton. And then the wood was piled, one stack big and one small, both over bright embers left from the last cremations. The families lifted the dead, and placed each on its pyre--knees together hidden inside white cotton, they might have been as big around as my elbows together. That small bundle, she must have been a tiny little lady. More wood is laid on top, and then straw is pushed under; it touches the coals; fires smolder, sputter, take. The smell is woodsmoke, simple. The wind blew it straight into my shawl and mouth and eyes.
We left then, to gaze at the stars (Orion with its flickering-red Beteljuice, Caseopeia, the Seven Sisters) all cupped in an off-center circle of sky, ringed around by haze and light of our city. A temple listed quietly into the Ganga in a pool of flowered malas. In small clusters, men returned from the festivities and all descended to the water. We could hear splashes of them jumping in, swimming a few feet out to the boats, and coming back in, newly absolved of sin.
The bodies were burning when we walked South again to Manikarnika Ghat. The families had left, and the fire tenders were there alone, anonymous with rags wrapped about their heads with only a slit left for their eyes. Flora, narrating--"Oh, see how he is lifting the body--oh, they break the body! See how they break the body! But they must do it; they know how. Now we will see the head...." Flames came, and the cotton that had been untouched now burned, and there was a human head engulfed in flame. "It is our hell," said John. And you could pretend that the figure was wax. But the smell was of flesh, of burning flesh--and the sound was not the sound of wood burning. We stood and watched the shine of the man's face (calm) turn to black and the smell was too much and we wended our way back to the main street and caught rickshaws home to bed.
Monday, October 22, 2007
All Night
Two nights in a row of all-night classical Indian concerts. Some really tremendous music. Heather and I, for reasons neither of us can understand, are designated "Honored Guests" and so have access to the golden eating tent and the golden sleeping tent and the golden tent where my guruji sits surrounded by fawning disciples and bags of spent paan (the man eats betelnuts at an astounding rate).
Both nights the MC calls me up on stage and has me light a 5-part candle the religious significance of which I haven't a clue. The second night, they put a garland of marigolds around me neck and say, "We welcome our honored guest Mr. John. Mr. John is a famous drumist from America." In this case "famous" must mean you play free shows to your friends at little cafes. Cheers. The dying flowers kept my neck surprisingly cool for the entire night.
Both nights the MC calls me up on stage and has me light a 5-part candle the religious significance of which I haven't a clue. The second night, they put a garland of marigolds around me neck and say, "We welcome our honored guest Mr. John. Mr. John is a famous drumist from America." In this case "famous" must mean you play free shows to your friends at little cafes. Cheers. The dying flowers kept my neck surprisingly cool for the entire night.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
In Pursuit of a Loom
You may ask--and some of you have--what has Heather been doing while John practices tabla many hours a day?
It is a valid question. One month has gone out of Heather's life in this mad city. But--it is not an easy question to answer. Her days cannot be generalized into any sort of routine. Yesterday afternoon, for example, she spent approximately 30 minutes in three bicycle rickshaws, and somewhere in the range of 200 minutes in autorickshaws (which were stopped twice to allow parades pass--the first elephants and camels Heather has seen on this continent). She was going to meet a man at a silk weaving factory; she was in pursuit of a loom. The man did not, in fact, appear... but it was alright. Heather had tea with his father and brother, and surely she expected that the pursuit would take more than one day. (John is encouraging in this pursuit, to his credit, as a loom surely takes up more space than a drum kit and is far less moveable once in place.....)
(But what one day is here--when one day lasts as it does and you see a whole city in a matter of a few hours from the cramped seat, cramped window of an autorickshaw and you want to remember everything: the man crossing the busiest street with the serenity of a monk pulling hundreds of pounds of cement on his cart; the kela-wallah with his cart bending under two feet of green bananas, bicycle-wheel spokes made from rebar; elephants and camels carrying benevolent rounded men; a statue of the goddess Durga painted silver with bloodied hands.... There were more things. I can't remember anymore. Time lasted forever and after so much it just takes on the color grey.)
Ahem. So Heather is in pursuit of a loom for her home. During the past few weeks, she's been exploring the world of the Benares handloom--specifically, the Jaquard loom. She has visited weavers in the Cantoments, in Sunderpur, in Kojwa, downtown, in Bhadaini. She has sat in showrooms on cushions while men have enthusiastically thrust silk and silver sarees and yards of fine and raw silk at her until she is buried like someone might be buried at the beach in sand. She has been learning Hindi slowly, so that now at least she can read menus and tell small children to bug off. And she has, in pursuit of knowledge on the subject of Benarsi brocade, assembled a rather motley army of teachers about her--most of whom, to her disadvantage, speak Hindi and a very limited amount of English. More on them later.
And now she is going to go and search for a stool and a mop. Because try as she might, she cannot sew with her non-electric sewing machine while standing. And cutting on the clean floor is tricky when the dust settles again twenty minutes after the floor's been swept.
It is a valid question. One month has gone out of Heather's life in this mad city. But--it is not an easy question to answer. Her days cannot be generalized into any sort of routine. Yesterday afternoon, for example, she spent approximately 30 minutes in three bicycle rickshaws, and somewhere in the range of 200 minutes in autorickshaws (which were stopped twice to allow parades pass--the first elephants and camels Heather has seen on this continent). She was going to meet a man at a silk weaving factory; she was in pursuit of a loom. The man did not, in fact, appear... but it was alright. Heather had tea with his father and brother, and surely she expected that the pursuit would take more than one day. (John is encouraging in this pursuit, to his credit, as a loom surely takes up more space than a drum kit and is far less moveable once in place.....)
(But what one day is here--when one day lasts as it does and you see a whole city in a matter of a few hours from the cramped seat, cramped window of an autorickshaw and you want to remember everything: the man crossing the busiest street with the serenity of a monk pulling hundreds of pounds of cement on his cart; the kela-wallah with his cart bending under two feet of green bananas, bicycle-wheel spokes made from rebar; elephants and camels carrying benevolent rounded men; a statue of the goddess Durga painted silver with bloodied hands.... There were more things. I can't remember anymore. Time lasted forever and after so much it just takes on the color grey.)
Ahem. So Heather is in pursuit of a loom for her home. During the past few weeks, she's been exploring the world of the Benares handloom--specifically, the Jaquard loom. She has visited weavers in the Cantoments, in Sunderpur, in Kojwa, downtown, in Bhadaini. She has sat in showrooms on cushions while men have enthusiastically thrust silk and silver sarees and yards of fine and raw silk at her until she is buried like someone might be buried at the beach in sand. She has been learning Hindi slowly, so that now at least she can read menus and tell small children to bug off. And she has, in pursuit of knowledge on the subject of Benarsi brocade, assembled a rather motley army of teachers about her--most of whom, to her disadvantage, speak Hindi and a very limited amount of English. More on them later.
And now she is going to go and search for a stool and a mop. Because try as she might, she cannot sew with her non-electric sewing machine while standing. And cutting on the clean floor is tricky when the dust settles again twenty minutes after the floor's been swept.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Aloo Alchemy
1. A frighteningly numerous troop of macaques (including many large, aggressive males) have been setting some things straight amongst themselves on our rooftop and balcony. Predawn today, one monkey smashed a large flowerpot on our balcony, a flowerpot which was home to a succulent edible plant of which I can't remember the name and am currently mourning. Our landlord has been shouting "Hi-Ya!" and waving bamboo poles and throwing bricks at these rowdy simians for the last two days. Today he decided he'd better escort his wife and teenage son to the street whenever they leave the house. Heather, sitting on the floor and crocheting plastic bags into tapestries just a few feet from a balcony lined with red-assed monkeys, says, "How does Guruji do it? He teases them! I'm just going to pretend they're not here." Never fear, having read Michael Crichton's "Congo" when I was 9, I'm confident I know how to deal with any primate aggressions. I am not afraid of them. I am not afraid of them. Nope.
2. I had a good dose of maddening Indian bureuacracy today when, in order to purchase a $27 mobile phone (no contract, even, just the phone and a calling card), the shop required a signed affidavit from my landlord, my passport, my Indian tourist visa, and a new passport-sized photo. On my 3rd visit to the shop in 24 hours, the salesman informs me that my signatures on the forms do not match the signature on my passport and so I'd have to go back down the street and have everything photocopied again. I, through taut jaws and pulling a little too hard on my beard, said, "The photos don't match either, sir, so should I hit the barber on my way back?!" And then I killed him. Our new phone number is available via personal email.
3. Heather made potatoes taste exactly like slow-smoked pulled pork. So freakin' good and patently impossible ...
2. I had a good dose of maddening Indian bureuacracy today when, in order to purchase a $27 mobile phone (no contract, even, just the phone and a calling card), the shop required a signed affidavit from my landlord, my passport, my Indian tourist visa, and a new passport-sized photo. On my 3rd visit to the shop in 24 hours, the salesman informs me that my signatures on the forms do not match the signature on my passport and so I'd have to go back down the street and have everything photocopied again. I, through taut jaws and pulling a little too hard on my beard, said, "The photos don't match either, sir, so should I hit the barber on my way back?!" And then I killed him. Our new phone number is available via personal email.
3. Heather made potatoes taste exactly like slow-smoked pulled pork. So freakin' good and patently impossible ...
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Surprise Concert
I've been asking my Guruji to find me a drum kit (even the university here, one of the top 3 in India, does not have one) and yesterday he finally came through. Sort of. Not really.
A fellow disciple, nicknamed Sony, appeared after my lesson and led me to his apartment which also houses his computer repair business. Sony pulls out his "drum set" which turns out to be an old electronic Roland Octapad. Yeah, I'm very disappointed. I end up giving an hour-long solo concert on this piece of junk (using seriously warped drum sticks) to 15 computer technicians and the majority of the residents of the apartment building. Children dancing, teens filming me on their phones, housewives peering illicitly from behind scarves, fellow tabla students trying to instruct me, "No, no, do Dha Dha Tirikita Dha Dha Tu Na." They wouldn't let me leave, though they were not particularly interested in my jazz playing, "make the Western beats, man! Rock'm'roll!!" So I did a rock'm'roll duet with a guy playing guitar the likes of which I haven't experienced since, oh, my 6th grade talent show. He knew two-and-a-half chords. Maybe. But the crowd completely ate it up and everyone gave me hugs and I ended up laughing more than I have in a long time. But the search for a set of "American drums" continues.
A fellow disciple, nicknamed Sony, appeared after my lesson and led me to his apartment which also houses his computer repair business. Sony pulls out his "drum set" which turns out to be an old electronic Roland Octapad. Yeah, I'm very disappointed. I end up giving an hour-long solo concert on this piece of junk (using seriously warped drum sticks) to 15 computer technicians and the majority of the residents of the apartment building. Children dancing, teens filming me on their phones, housewives peering illicitly from behind scarves, fellow tabla students trying to instruct me, "No, no, do Dha Dha Tirikita Dha Dha Tu Na." They wouldn't let me leave, though they were not particularly interested in my jazz playing, "make the Western beats, man! Rock'm'roll!!" So I did a rock'm'roll duet with a guy playing guitar the likes of which I haven't experienced since, oh, my 6th grade talent show. He knew two-and-a-half chords. Maybe. But the crowd completely ate it up and everyone gave me hugs and I ended up laughing more than I have in a long time. But the search for a set of "American drums" continues.
Sunday, October 7, 2007
Guesthouse to Studio...
Here transcribed are the directions from our original downtown guesthouse to John's guruji's studio, taken down on our second morning in Varanasi because we would have to get home that day on our own:
Go out of hotel, straight 15 paces, turn left, go 2 paces, turn right, go forty paces, right, 1 pace, left, 16 paces, left, 73 paces, right, 71 paces, left, 9 paces, right, 68 paces, left, 104 paces, right, 12 paces, left, 94 paces, cross main road, 38 paces, right, 42, left, 25, slight right, 6, slight left, 48 paces, left, 13 paces, right, 48, right, 2, turn right and go up the stairs.
Go out of hotel, straight 15 paces, turn left, go 2 paces, turn right, go forty paces, right, 1 pace, left, 16 paces, left, 73 paces, right, 71 paces, left, 9 paces, right, 68 paces, left, 104 paces, right, 12 paces, left, 94 paces, cross main road, 38 paces, right, 42, left, 25, slight right, 6, slight left, 48 paces, left, 13 paces, right, 48, right, 2, turn right and go up the stairs.
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
Formidable Hopelessness of the Away
- A small girl gripping a goat by the horns and repeatedly and very seriously butting heads with it.
- In the market, someone stole our bottle of water from right beneath our noses. I was fuming for minutes. Had to repeat, "Let it go. Let it go. It's a cheap lesson." The girl [13 years old? Betel-rotten teeth.] who'd just sold us some tomatoes tried to contain her amusement.
- My newest syllabic rhythms compositions: "Followed by redundant Parvati-the-witch formidable hopelessness of the away, there's a rapper named Sticky Fingaz, means he's a thief."
- We're considering turning one wing of our flat into an art gallery with monthly openings by ex-pat artists. Imagine, if you visit us, you can have your own solo show.
- A cow (with dull, small horns, thankfully) rammed Heather today. She's completely fine. "It was like walking into a slow-moving brick wall." But why? I think it likes her.
- In the market, someone stole our bottle of water from right beneath our noses. I was fuming for minutes. Had to repeat, "Let it go. Let it go. It's a cheap lesson." The girl [13 years old? Betel-rotten teeth.] who'd just sold us some tomatoes tried to contain her amusement.
- My newest syllabic rhythms compositions: "Followed by redundant Parvati-the-witch formidable hopelessness of the away, there's a rapper named Sticky Fingaz, means he's a thief."
- We're considering turning one wing of our flat into an art gallery with monthly openings by ex-pat artists. Imagine, if you visit us, you can have your own solo show.
- A cow (with dull, small horns, thankfully) rammed Heather today. She's completely fine. "It was like walking into a slow-moving brick wall." But why? I think it likes her.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)