I do. In Jaipur. Can’t deal with looking at buildings all day. Went to the Amber Fort, and it looked like a, erm, fort. It was big. Didn’t want to look at anymore buildings so spent most of the following afternoon sitting on the white-cushioned floor of a tiny shop near Hawa Mahal with an Italian gemstones dealer. We decided on my character before we got there, so told them I don’t speak Hindi, I’m half white and my husband is in Europe. I use Hindi only when I need to use it because it’s not always the best thing for me. I’ve tried the experiment of ditching the piercings and combat-dress style clothing for a simple salwaar kameez, Nazreen styleee. But guess what? It doesn’t matter, the fact that I am woman travelling alone is enough.
The guy’s been dealing in gems for a good couple of decades. I went along to keep my mouth shut and listen in on the conversation. We sipped tea and examined stones and waited in patience for the next broker to come along and impress us with something. These guys are like underwriters. They say the stones have been tested by a lab, but this is not always the case, and even if it as, there is no way you will ever get the perfect stone without running into six figures. So called “fish” marks mean it’s not as good as it could be. My Italian friend found what he was looking for and refused to purchase right until the last minute when they could take no more, and then the deal was done. No problemo!
Everyone tries to shake your hand, all the men that is, but I usually ignore them or respond with a polite Namaste or tell them in Hindi that I come from the sky whenever they try to find out who I am and where I come from. “Aasmaan se aiy hain” seems to work quite well, it gives them a laugh. For me, Jaipur was full of money makers and perverts. I didn’t feel like being a tourist in this town. The people here like to suffer fools too gladly for my liking, everyone so evidently out to make a quick buck out of tourists and then tourists walking around like lambs who have no idea about the slaughter! MI Road is full of international backpackers and that’s where I stayed, mainly because it was central. It was nice to be in the hostel and I had fun with some cool people who were there on business. In fact everyone in Jaipur seemed to be there on business, the regulars linking up at the same hotel. In fact they seem to be having fun at the same time, travelling, making money, meeting people. Sounds good eh? I’d go back, but only if it made good business sense!
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Pushkar People
Pushkar put a spell on me. I can't really explain it in any other way. You don't walk through its bazaar, you float through it. It's like a medieval festival full of mystical characters. The people here have a mannerism that I haven't noticed anywhere else in India. They will charm you, grab your attention in witty ways and become faces that you get to know on first-name terms in a matter of hours.
People in Pushkar are all about connecting. Pushkar Lake at sunset was the best time of the day to do this with the locals, especially the kids that literally hang off you like monkeys, speaking defiantly in their half-broken English and getting highly cheeky and mischevious!
There's a few trippy characters too, including the guy who gave Isabelle a massage. Rolling his eyes as he massaged her hand, this guy managed to convince her to strip down to her knickers in no more than sixty seconds because by the time I'd got back from the toilet, she was starkers and straddled. It might have been the red light in the room or the fact he wanted me to strip down and lie on the bed next to her too, but it was all a bit horny. He did the job well though because it was just what her back needed.
Pushkar came to be placed on the map a a result of the Godhead Brahma, who planted a lotus flower at the spot now known as Pushkar Lake. The Brahma Mandir in Pushkar is meant to be the only temple in the world devoted to Brahma. It's also a sanctury of just a handful of the 30 million gods of the Hindu religion, including Vishnu, Shiva and Hanuman.
But it's not the tourist attractions that make the impact, it's the feeling you get when you walk into the town. Following the intensity of chaos in places like Delhi, Agra and Jaipur, this place felt bliss! You feel embraced by a spiritual energy, it's real chilled and there's no place here for meat, eggs or alcohol although bhang lassi is on the unofficial menu and can be obtained quite easily. Mind blowing stuff, or so I've heard...
Pushkar made me realise a few things about the way we connect with each other, how the energy of other people is a reflection of your energy and how easy you see this in the eyes of others. It made clearer the philosophy of Self. It was a graphic illustration of how visualisations can be manifested and gave me even more faith in the universe. I'm happy I had this experience and def plan on coming back.
Have lots of groovy pics by the way. Blogger takes an age to upload them. gonna think of another solution. any ideas anyone, let me know!
People in Pushkar are all about connecting. Pushkar Lake at sunset was the best time of the day to do this with the locals, especially the kids that literally hang off you like monkeys, speaking defiantly in their half-broken English and getting highly cheeky and mischevious!
There's a few trippy characters too, including the guy who gave Isabelle a massage. Rolling his eyes as he massaged her hand, this guy managed to convince her to strip down to her knickers in no more than sixty seconds because by the time I'd got back from the toilet, she was starkers and straddled. It might have been the red light in the room or the fact he wanted me to strip down and lie on the bed next to her too, but it was all a bit horny. He did the job well though because it was just what her back needed.
Pushkar came to be placed on the map a a result of the Godhead Brahma, who planted a lotus flower at the spot now known as Pushkar Lake. The Brahma Mandir in Pushkar is meant to be the only temple in the world devoted to Brahma. It's also a sanctury of just a handful of the 30 million gods of the Hindu religion, including Vishnu, Shiva and Hanuman.
But it's not the tourist attractions that make the impact, it's the feeling you get when you walk into the town. Following the intensity of chaos in places like Delhi, Agra and Jaipur, this place felt bliss! You feel embraced by a spiritual energy, it's real chilled and there's no place here for meat, eggs or alcohol although bhang lassi is on the unofficial menu and can be obtained quite easily. Mind blowing stuff, or so I've heard...
Pushkar made me realise a few things about the way we connect with each other, how the energy of other people is a reflection of your energy and how easy you see this in the eyes of others. It made clearer the philosophy of Self. It was a graphic illustration of how visualisations can be manifested and gave me even more faith in the universe. I'm happy I had this experience and def plan on coming back.
Have lots of groovy pics by the way. Blogger takes an age to upload them. gonna think of another solution. any ideas anyone, let me know!
Friday, December 12, 2008
From Pushkar With Love...
From Pushkar With Love
Wow. This is the feeling I've been searching for in India. This is the India I’ve been wanting to experience. The concentration of faith, belief in God, in the human race and in the Universe explains why one can be so overwhelmed by the energy that reverberates every through every nook and cranny of India. It also explains why there is no other country in this world like India. This energy can be felt in every ghat, street alley, riverside community, mountain dwelling, city suburb, village, town, city space, every dirt track, practically everywhere that there are people to be found. The energy resonates from the hearts and souls of India's 1.2 billion people. The collective power of universal oneness! Energy levels are greater in some places than in others. It’s something that comes to mind when you happen to be walking down a street and it just hits you, stopping you in your tracks. It feel as if some magical puff of smoke has transformed the signal of your senses as you absorb these now suddenly different variables of the external environment. One such place is Pushkar, Rajasthan.
I'd been travelling since 6am and finally arrived in Pushkar late afternoon. Yet the journey was not quite over as the comical scenario trying to get off the actual bus proved more than just a little trying. People are pushing to get on the bus like a herd of elephants. Only one tiny set of doors on the bus are open. The people on the bus trying to get off are trapped as the swarm attempting to get on are blocking the doors! It’s a slightly aggressive push-shove situation and I plead with the driver to allow me to get out from his side but he's not having any of it. My rucksack is huge and I have to use considerable force and literally fight to get out of there. It shows that despite the mellow, peaceful, vibe of this place, there is nothing to tame Indians when it comes to bagging your place on public transport!
The Krishna Guesthouse was a short walk away, near to the Vishnu Mandir. There are bhajans blaring from the loudspeakers of the temple. You could very easily slip in a nice little drum n bass mix, or even better, a psytrance bassline. In fact I can hear the distant sound of drums as I write this text. It's almost midnight, and despite the fact all action on the streets dies down by about 9pm, one of the restaurants in town is having their Friday night rave with bhajans, dancing and chants. It sounds like the distant vibrations emanating from a psytrance festival.
I'm here in Pushkar with Isabelle, a French rasta girl I met on the plane from London to Delhi. By the time I'd arrived, she'd linked up with a few other Frenchies, three very witty, good-humoured guys that are totally integrated into Indian life, taking it in their stride. They've been coming to India for 15 years and speak pretty good Hindi. One of them, a blonde rasta, with a lovely interactive aura, has been studying Sanskrit in Bodhgaya. We smoked some nice hash from Parvati Valley, which is up in the state of Himachal Pradesh, a place I plan on visiting in a few months time. It feels really good to connect with people who are so in love with India and so clued up about its various parts.
To enter India is like entering the cosmic universe. The doors have been opened and suddenly you realise you are there. Boom! Boom Boley Naath! The latter is in reference to Shiva, the god of creation and destruction, whose name is pronounced before inhaling the holy smoke of the chillum. Puff and you are there! Praise the Gods, praise the Universe created by them, praise the positive energy they shower upon us and the good vibrations that this creates between each and every one of us!
One thing that I must mention though, without putting a downer on all this positivity, is the registration process in this particular hostel. Perhaps it's as a result of the Mumbai bombings, but when I went to register, I discovered it was not just my name and passport number that they wanted. They also wanted my visa number, visa start and expiry dates, the place in India that I had arrived from and the one that I am going to next, duration I expect to stay in the country, date I arrived into the country, the airport I flew from and to, my date of birth and my UK address.
There's no denying the beauty of the hostel we are in with its grassy courtyard, maze of stairs that take you up to its many roof terraces, its Rajput architecture that will lead you up to its highest points from where you can just sit and watch the sunset or sunrise, it's basic yet fabulous, clean rooms with ensuite bathrooms and hot showers, etc. Despite all this, I can't get my head around the registration process and can't help but question the guy at reception. He refuses to give me any information, but I'm curious so I badger him and we're going around in circles. Me: “Why do you need to know where I'm going next?” Him: “Because I have to know.” Me: “But for what reason are you collecting so much information and why do you have to know? Who is this information for?” Him: “Because it's my job and like I told you, I have to know”. I admit I badgered him and yes, he does flip, threatening to report me to the police before describing a scenario where I'd be arrested, locked up and deported. Another guy confirms that the information is being logged for the CID, police, various other authorities and who knows who else. It shook me up a little but the restaurant we all went to a little while later chilled me out. I realize after that every hostel is like this and they have to follow the law. Guess you can’t argue about everything.
The place was like a temple. There was a shrine to Sai Baba in the middle of the courtyard, plants, flowers and trees framing it. We're sitting around its edges on huge cushions smoking chillums around the table. Pushkar is not exactly the gastronomical capital of India so dinner was not so impressive, very bland in fact as I can guess they presume foreigners to have low levels of spice tolerance. A Nepalese kid takes our orders. He speaks no Hindi and no English, and walks away without finishing the order on several occasions, but we have a laugh with him about it all the same. Another waiter joins us for a chillum, forgets the chai I had ordered and sits down with his own cup! He tells us to switch off the lights before we leave. Bliss! On the way home, a little kid tries to peddle us charas, hashish and bhang lassie and mocks us with this non-stop and freaky high-pitched cackle when we refuse his offer.
Pushka is magic. It touched my heart. And to enjoy it with the people that I have met here today, has made it all the more magical. Still have another two nights here, so I hope to bring back some more news on this incredible place at some point soon….. You must forgive the terribe gramatical errors in this text, but I a sure you will undestand that I don't want to use up too much time doing all that because I really don’t want to waste another second absorbing the richness of this place… Time for a little shopping methinks!
Wow. This is the feeling I've been searching for in India. This is the India I’ve been wanting to experience. The concentration of faith, belief in God, in the human race and in the Universe explains why one can be so overwhelmed by the energy that reverberates every through every nook and cranny of India. It also explains why there is no other country in this world like India. This energy can be felt in every ghat, street alley, riverside community, mountain dwelling, city suburb, village, town, city space, every dirt track, practically everywhere that there are people to be found. The energy resonates from the hearts and souls of India's 1.2 billion people. The collective power of universal oneness! Energy levels are greater in some places than in others. It’s something that comes to mind when you happen to be walking down a street and it just hits you, stopping you in your tracks. It feel as if some magical puff of smoke has transformed the signal of your senses as you absorb these now suddenly different variables of the external environment. One such place is Pushkar, Rajasthan.
I'd been travelling since 6am and finally arrived in Pushkar late afternoon. Yet the journey was not quite over as the comical scenario trying to get off the actual bus proved more than just a little trying. People are pushing to get on the bus like a herd of elephants. Only one tiny set of doors on the bus are open. The people on the bus trying to get off are trapped as the swarm attempting to get on are blocking the doors! It’s a slightly aggressive push-shove situation and I plead with the driver to allow me to get out from his side but he's not having any of it. My rucksack is huge and I have to use considerable force and literally fight to get out of there. It shows that despite the mellow, peaceful, vibe of this place, there is nothing to tame Indians when it comes to bagging your place on public transport!
The Krishna Guesthouse was a short walk away, near to the Vishnu Mandir. There are bhajans blaring from the loudspeakers of the temple. You could very easily slip in a nice little drum n bass mix, or even better, a psytrance bassline. In fact I can hear the distant sound of drums as I write this text. It's almost midnight, and despite the fact all action on the streets dies down by about 9pm, one of the restaurants in town is having their Friday night rave with bhajans, dancing and chants. It sounds like the distant vibrations emanating from a psytrance festival.
I'm here in Pushkar with Isabelle, a French rasta girl I met on the plane from London to Delhi. By the time I'd arrived, she'd linked up with a few other Frenchies, three very witty, good-humoured guys that are totally integrated into Indian life, taking it in their stride. They've been coming to India for 15 years and speak pretty good Hindi. One of them, a blonde rasta, with a lovely interactive aura, has been studying Sanskrit in Bodhgaya. We smoked some nice hash from Parvati Valley, which is up in the state of Himachal Pradesh, a place I plan on visiting in a few months time. It feels really good to connect with people who are so in love with India and so clued up about its various parts.
To enter India is like entering the cosmic universe. The doors have been opened and suddenly you realise you are there. Boom! Boom Boley Naath! The latter is in reference to Shiva, the god of creation and destruction, whose name is pronounced before inhaling the holy smoke of the chillum. Puff and you are there! Praise the Gods, praise the Universe created by them, praise the positive energy they shower upon us and the good vibrations that this creates between each and every one of us!
One thing that I must mention though, without putting a downer on all this positivity, is the registration process in this particular hostel. Perhaps it's as a result of the Mumbai bombings, but when I went to register, I discovered it was not just my name and passport number that they wanted. They also wanted my visa number, visa start and expiry dates, the place in India that I had arrived from and the one that I am going to next, duration I expect to stay in the country, date I arrived into the country, the airport I flew from and to, my date of birth and my UK address.
There's no denying the beauty of the hostel we are in with its grassy courtyard, maze of stairs that take you up to its many roof terraces, its Rajput architecture that will lead you up to its highest points from where you can just sit and watch the sunset or sunrise, it's basic yet fabulous, clean rooms with ensuite bathrooms and hot showers, etc. Despite all this, I can't get my head around the registration process and can't help but question the guy at reception. He refuses to give me any information, but I'm curious so I badger him and we're going around in circles. Me: “Why do you need to know where I'm going next?” Him: “Because I have to know.” Me: “But for what reason are you collecting so much information and why do you have to know? Who is this information for?” Him: “Because it's my job and like I told you, I have to know”. I admit I badgered him and yes, he does flip, threatening to report me to the police before describing a scenario where I'd be arrested, locked up and deported. Another guy confirms that the information is being logged for the CID, police, various other authorities and who knows who else. It shook me up a little but the restaurant we all went to a little while later chilled me out. I realize after that every hostel is like this and they have to follow the law. Guess you can’t argue about everything.
The place was like a temple. There was a shrine to Sai Baba in the middle of the courtyard, plants, flowers and trees framing it. We're sitting around its edges on huge cushions smoking chillums around the table. Pushkar is not exactly the gastronomical capital of India so dinner was not so impressive, very bland in fact as I can guess they presume foreigners to have low levels of spice tolerance. A Nepalese kid takes our orders. He speaks no Hindi and no English, and walks away without finishing the order on several occasions, but we have a laugh with him about it all the same. Another waiter joins us for a chillum, forgets the chai I had ordered and sits down with his own cup! He tells us to switch off the lights before we leave. Bliss! On the way home, a little kid tries to peddle us charas, hashish and bhang lassie and mocks us with this non-stop and freaky high-pitched cackle when we refuse his offer.
Pushka is magic. It touched my heart. And to enjoy it with the people that I have met here today, has made it all the more magical. Still have another two nights here, so I hope to bring back some more news on this incredible place at some point soon….. You must forgive the terribe gramatical errors in this text, but I a sure you will undestand that I don't want to use up too much time doing all that because I really don’t want to waste another second absorbing the richness of this place… Time for a little shopping methinks!
Monday, December 8, 2008
Journey to a place of love?
I decided it was time to get off ass and venture out into the bosom of Mother India. The Taj Mahal, one of the 8th wonders of the world, “a teardrop on the face of eternity”, a symbol of ever-lasting love that reaches out from beyond the grave, the remnants of a broken heart, a broken man, a torn soul - is a mere 200 km from Delhi. How could I possibly not go? I took the train from Faridabad, Delhi to Agra. It was my first train journey in India - an experience that can be quite daunting if you're not used to it. I'm not used to it, so by the time I got there, I felt quite proud of myself for getting on the choo-choo all on me lonesome.
My ticket doesn't have a seat number (lesson number 1: always ask for a seat number when booking your ticket), but I am lucky enough not to get harassed by anyone for sitting on their seat. On the train I manage to jump up to the top tier section of the third-class compartment. Chunks of the bench where there are supposed to be wooden panels are missing so it's not exactly comfortable. I try various positions to prevent falling arse-first and crushing the head of the passenger sitting below me. Throughout the journey, I sit there with my book trying not to make eye contact with the two guys opposite who continue to stare at me relentlessly throughout the journey.
In fact it feels as if everyone on the train has been staring at me like I have two heads. Truth is, they don't quite know what to make of me. With my Asian complexion, I appear to be Indian yet to them, I appear with my Indian-style dress and jeans. Then they see I have a piece of metal sticking out of my bottom lip and my hair is sticking up in every which direction. Have decided to instigate a little experiment of my own by dressing as a 23 year-old Indian girl in salwar kameez minus piercings to see the difference in the way people percieve me (just call me bat-u-meez Nazreen). If this doesn't work, then I'm definitley making an impression on people simply because of the fact I am an Indian girl travelling on her own. Let's just wait and see what happens.
Throngs of people with their cloth knapsacks, suitcases, trunks, multi-coloured synthetic bags, metal boxes and plastic containers are ambling to jump onto the moving train, as those trying to alight persevere with defiance to keep their places at the exit doors. On the platform there are shoe shiners, ear cleaners, coolies, food stalls and men sitting like snake charmers over their smoking chulas churning out steaming hot food. The action is non-stop and it's all go, go, go as little chai men chase seated passengers through open windows, luring them with “Garam chai! Garam chai!”
Exposing the sheer diversity of people that pass through them, railway platforms here are like a window into the soul of India. Sitting on a bench with her husband, a woman in a bright orange sari is breastfeeding her child, her head and face covered, protecting her from the unwelcome gaze of other men. A group of women dressed in muslin saris worn the Rajasthani way, are waiting patiently for the train, their noses embedded in semi-precious stones. I spot a freshly married young couple. She peers at me shy and curious, holding the end of her chiffon duputta over her mouth. Her chooria* are stacked half way up both arms (*a special set of red bangles worn by women on their wedding day and which they continue to wear for some months after). The sindoor*, (*a scarlet red powder worn by married women) is sprinkled along the centre-parting of her hair and is another giveaway of her betrothed status. A man in an embroidered white Muslim kurta and braided topis* (toque) checks the time on his watch as a long-haired, bearded sadhu in saffron robes and a tilak* (*scarlet powder representing the third eye of knowledge) walks by.
There are also children begging, many of them with stumps instead of hands and feet, which have been mutilated by the rackets responsible for kidnapping them and putting them on the streets. A small girl about 7 years old with big lifeless eyes and a sullen expression approaches me. She has nothing on her feet. She appears to be one of the lucky ones with all her limbs still intact. I can't get to my money as I have it tied up in a pocket on the inside of my jeans, so I give her the stuffed chapatti with lime-pickle that my aunty had packed for me instead. I get on the train and discover more of these kids, I notice a small boy with amputated feet dragging himself on a plank with wheels through the aisle, challenging passengers for change. Accustomed as they are to witnessing the depths of such deprivation, most look away or continue reading their newspapers. I understand there are millions of cases like this and that you can't give out small change to every kid you see, but I can't ignore this one so I place a five rupee coin in the palm of his hand and a smile transforms his face.
I strike up a conversation with one of the passengers on the train. He's a government scientist and tells me, “the mobs are known to kidnap children from their parents in busy areas. They amputate their limbs so that they look like lepers because they think it will generate more sympathy, hence greater revenues. It also allows unprecedented levels of control over the children.” He tells me that “by night, “debt collectors” roam the streets, leaving the kids with a few rupees for whatever food they can get.”
Busker kids jump on and off the train with their makeshift drums and string instruments. They appear as ambassadors of India’s cultural diversity as there is a marked difference in the sounds and rhythms they play as the train passes through different areas. You can also spot differences between the dialects, accents and even physical features. The soul of India is transparent. I can see it in the myriad of peoples that I visibly encounter on this journey. There is a beauty radiating from their souls, the kids in particular. They have no fear. They are doing what they think they have been put on this earth to do, perhaps in accordance to the Hindu religion, to make up for the sins they had committed in a previous life. They can only hope that by suffering in this life, they will be incarnated into a better one in the next. Traditions are preserved in India, even amongst those suffering at the very depths of poverty. It feels ironic that I am making this pilgrimage to this place that is meant to symbolize love when those who I have encountered along the journey, are lacking exactly that.
My ticket doesn't have a seat number (lesson number 1: always ask for a seat number when booking your ticket), but I am lucky enough not to get harassed by anyone for sitting on their seat. On the train I manage to jump up to the top tier section of the third-class compartment. Chunks of the bench where there are supposed to be wooden panels are missing so it's not exactly comfortable. I try various positions to prevent falling arse-first and crushing the head of the passenger sitting below me. Throughout the journey, I sit there with my book trying not to make eye contact with the two guys opposite who continue to stare at me relentlessly throughout the journey.
In fact it feels as if everyone on the train has been staring at me like I have two heads. Truth is, they don't quite know what to make of me. With my Asian complexion, I appear to be Indian yet to them, I appear with my Indian-style dress and jeans. Then they see I have a piece of metal sticking out of my bottom lip and my hair is sticking up in every which direction. Have decided to instigate a little experiment of my own by dressing as a 23 year-old Indian girl in salwar kameez minus piercings to see the difference in the way people percieve me (just call me bat-u-meez Nazreen). If this doesn't work, then I'm definitley making an impression on people simply because of the fact I am an Indian girl travelling on her own. Let's just wait and see what happens.
Throngs of people with their cloth knapsacks, suitcases, trunks, multi-coloured synthetic bags, metal boxes and plastic containers are ambling to jump onto the moving train, as those trying to alight persevere with defiance to keep their places at the exit doors. On the platform there are shoe shiners, ear cleaners, coolies, food stalls and men sitting like snake charmers over their smoking chulas churning out steaming hot food. The action is non-stop and it's all go, go, go as little chai men chase seated passengers through open windows, luring them with “Garam chai! Garam chai!”
Exposing the sheer diversity of people that pass through them, railway platforms here are like a window into the soul of India. Sitting on a bench with her husband, a woman in a bright orange sari is breastfeeding her child, her head and face covered, protecting her from the unwelcome gaze of other men. A group of women dressed in muslin saris worn the Rajasthani way, are waiting patiently for the train, their noses embedded in semi-precious stones. I spot a freshly married young couple. She peers at me shy and curious, holding the end of her chiffon duputta over her mouth. Her chooria* are stacked half way up both arms (*a special set of red bangles worn by women on their wedding day and which they continue to wear for some months after). The sindoor*, (*a scarlet red powder worn by married women) is sprinkled along the centre-parting of her hair and is another giveaway of her betrothed status. A man in an embroidered white Muslim kurta and braided topis* (toque) checks the time on his watch as a long-haired, bearded sadhu in saffron robes and a tilak* (*scarlet powder representing the third eye of knowledge) walks by.
There are also children begging, many of them with stumps instead of hands and feet, which have been mutilated by the rackets responsible for kidnapping them and putting them on the streets. A small girl about 7 years old with big lifeless eyes and a sullen expression approaches me. She has nothing on her feet. She appears to be one of the lucky ones with all her limbs still intact. I can't get to my money as I have it tied up in a pocket on the inside of my jeans, so I give her the stuffed chapatti with lime-pickle that my aunty had packed for me instead. I get on the train and discover more of these kids, I notice a small boy with amputated feet dragging himself on a plank with wheels through the aisle, challenging passengers for change. Accustomed as they are to witnessing the depths of such deprivation, most look away or continue reading their newspapers. I understand there are millions of cases like this and that you can't give out small change to every kid you see, but I can't ignore this one so I place a five rupee coin in the palm of his hand and a smile transforms his face.
I strike up a conversation with one of the passengers on the train. He's a government scientist and tells me, “the mobs are known to kidnap children from their parents in busy areas. They amputate their limbs so that they look like lepers because they think it will generate more sympathy, hence greater revenues. It also allows unprecedented levels of control over the children.” He tells me that “by night, “debt collectors” roam the streets, leaving the kids with a few rupees for whatever food they can get.”
Busker kids jump on and off the train with their makeshift drums and string instruments. They appear as ambassadors of India’s cultural diversity as there is a marked difference in the sounds and rhythms they play as the train passes through different areas. You can also spot differences between the dialects, accents and even physical features. The soul of India is transparent. I can see it in the myriad of peoples that I visibly encounter on this journey. There is a beauty radiating from their souls, the kids in particular. They have no fear. They are doing what they think they have been put on this earth to do, perhaps in accordance to the Hindu religion, to make up for the sins they had committed in a previous life. They can only hope that by suffering in this life, they will be incarnated into a better one in the next. Traditions are preserved in India, even amongst those suffering at the very depths of poverty. It feels ironic that I am making this pilgrimage to this place that is meant to symbolize love when those who I have encountered along the journey, are lacking exactly that.
Monday, December 1, 2008
Namaste!
Da Eagle has landed!
Bye-bye England, hello India! Waiting in the wings for takeoff has fuelled my brain with enough ideas about what i want to do. So finally, I'm here, and one of the first things I would like to do is to find a good ashram. Imagine though, if you could take all the ashrams that exist in India and put them together? They would take up a fair chunk of the country – which is why I have no idea where to begin, and which is why I have decided it's better to just let the ashram come to me.
On the buses
Staying with my uncle in Delhi, Faridabad. This is base for a few weeks until I decide on plan of action. Faridabad is dusty to high hell. Take a bus journey through this city and you'll feel choked by the end of it, especially if you make the mistake of sitting next to the window. By the time you want to get off the bus, it's so ramssacked with people you practically find yourself slow-motion-swimming through a sea of bodies to get to the front, exhausted with claustrophobic palpatations and gasping for air. You also need to hold on to the nearest thing to stop yourself from flying through the front screen as the drivers have a habit of slamming the breaks at unexpected times.
Traffic
Think Indian traffic and think rickshaws, buses and cars trying to out-do each other as they dodge cows strolling in the wrong direction and avoid getting crushed by stacks of precariously balanced goods carted by donkeys and camels. Just a couple of years ago, charged by the EU for being “too loud” and breaking the so-called noise-pollution law, Spain was hit by an order demanding it “keep the noise down”. If EU officials consider Spain noisy, then they obviously haven't taken a white knuckle ride through a busy Delhi street on a rickshaw with the wind blowing through your hair and a cocktail of smells spanning sewers to samosas engulfing the nostrils as you inhale zillions of particles of dust and find yourself going deaf with incessant honking. Even if there is no need to beep, they still feel the need to. It's a traffic jungle out there and you have to beep-whack your way through all the chaos.
It's a crazy kind of chaos that most people will either love it or hate. I can positively confirm that within a matter of days, I've managed to hit the ground running and synchronize with India's chaotic way of everyday life. I think you need to have a sense of humour to appreciate the chaos in India because people here have a certain way of dealing with it, and that generally happens to be with a wide toothy smile. Found myself in a traffic jam the other day sitting in car with cousin and aunty. It was a very busy bazaar and the jam involved a two rickshaws, a cow, and three cars clogging up a narrow street junction. I noticed traffic jams are caused by people who refuse to move because they actually enjoy being a part of all the commotion, honking horns, hollering in jest and having a good old banter in the middle of it all. More and more people will come out onto the street to watch and you will notice how everyone is wearing this silly grin.
Holier than thou cows
They are absolutely everywhere. And certainly considered holier than thou, especially in the eyes of Indians because the cow is a Godly figure and can do no wrong, even in the middle of a busy road, where traffic will stop to let her holiness pass. Even when the cow has no intention of moving, cars and rickshaws will wait until she has decided it's time to move on.
So far, I've seen them strolling casually through the hectic bazaar, sleeping outside the outlet of an internet service provider, chilling out next to a street vendor selling fresh lime juice and as mentioned, walking about in the middle of busy roads, causing traffic jams. The cow is even known to walk into your office and chill out next to your desk. So when they say “holy cow”, it's a literal a reerence to the revered sacred status of the cow. In India, the cow is a godly figure, a representation of the cowherd led by Krishna, the God of Love. Krishna is famed for his love of butter, which came from the milk of the cows that he took care of. Like a mother, the cow is a provider, a giver of milk, her love is symbolized by the milk she gives and it's an unconditional love like that of a mother. The mother is respected as a Goddess in Hinduism, therefore, the cow, who is considered a symbol of motherhood, as giver of of milk, is also worshipped. In fact just this year, the value of the cow was given consideration on a scientific as well as spiritual level when South Africa hosted an event that discussed the medicinal value of cow dung and urine, and life as a vegetarian.
Cows, bazaars, buses and traffic jams, if I can get through this, then I think I'm gonna be okay here in India. The real test will be travelling long distance on trains and surviving for at least another six months, not to mention the diabolical level of poverty that I will inevitably see. I feel initiated into Indian life already and most definitley feel ready for an adventure! :-)
Bye-bye England, hello India! Waiting in the wings for takeoff has fuelled my brain with enough ideas about what i want to do. So finally, I'm here, and one of the first things I would like to do is to find a good ashram. Imagine though, if you could take all the ashrams that exist in India and put them together? They would take up a fair chunk of the country – which is why I have no idea where to begin, and which is why I have decided it's better to just let the ashram come to me.
On the buses
Staying with my uncle in Delhi, Faridabad. This is base for a few weeks until I decide on plan of action. Faridabad is dusty to high hell. Take a bus journey through this city and you'll feel choked by the end of it, especially if you make the mistake of sitting next to the window. By the time you want to get off the bus, it's so ramssacked with people you practically find yourself slow-motion-swimming through a sea of bodies to get to the front, exhausted with claustrophobic palpatations and gasping for air. You also need to hold on to the nearest thing to stop yourself from flying through the front screen as the drivers have a habit of slamming the breaks at unexpected times.
Traffic
Think Indian traffic and think rickshaws, buses and cars trying to out-do each other as they dodge cows strolling in the wrong direction and avoid getting crushed by stacks of precariously balanced goods carted by donkeys and camels. Just a couple of years ago, charged by the EU for being “too loud” and breaking the so-called noise-pollution law, Spain was hit by an order demanding it “keep the noise down”. If EU officials consider Spain noisy, then they obviously haven't taken a white knuckle ride through a busy Delhi street on a rickshaw with the wind blowing through your hair and a cocktail of smells spanning sewers to samosas engulfing the nostrils as you inhale zillions of particles of dust and find yourself going deaf with incessant honking. Even if there is no need to beep, they still feel the need to. It's a traffic jungle out there and you have to beep-whack your way through all the chaos.
It's a crazy kind of chaos that most people will either love it or hate. I can positively confirm that within a matter of days, I've managed to hit the ground running and synchronize with India's chaotic way of everyday life. I think you need to have a sense of humour to appreciate the chaos in India because people here have a certain way of dealing with it, and that generally happens to be with a wide toothy smile. Found myself in a traffic jam the other day sitting in car with cousin and aunty. It was a very busy bazaar and the jam involved a two rickshaws, a cow, and three cars clogging up a narrow street junction. I noticed traffic jams are caused by people who refuse to move because they actually enjoy being a part of all the commotion, honking horns, hollering in jest and having a good old banter in the middle of it all. More and more people will come out onto the street to watch and you will notice how everyone is wearing this silly grin.
Holier than thou cows
They are absolutely everywhere. And certainly considered holier than thou, especially in the eyes of Indians because the cow is a Godly figure and can do no wrong, even in the middle of a busy road, where traffic will stop to let her holiness pass. Even when the cow has no intention of moving, cars and rickshaws will wait until she has decided it's time to move on.
So far, I've seen them strolling casually through the hectic bazaar, sleeping outside the outlet of an internet service provider, chilling out next to a street vendor selling fresh lime juice and as mentioned, walking about in the middle of busy roads, causing traffic jams. The cow is even known to walk into your office and chill out next to your desk. So when they say “holy cow”, it's a literal a reerence to the revered sacred status of the cow. In India, the cow is a godly figure, a representation of the cowherd led by Krishna, the God of Love. Krishna is famed for his love of butter, which came from the milk of the cows that he took care of. Like a mother, the cow is a provider, a giver of milk, her love is symbolized by the milk she gives and it's an unconditional love like that of a mother. The mother is respected as a Goddess in Hinduism, therefore, the cow, who is considered a symbol of motherhood, as giver of of milk, is also worshipped. In fact just this year, the value of the cow was given consideration on a scientific as well as spiritual level when South Africa hosted an event that discussed the medicinal value of cow dung and urine, and life as a vegetarian.
Cows, bazaars, buses and traffic jams, if I can get through this, then I think I'm gonna be okay here in India. The real test will be travelling long distance on trains and surviving for at least another six months, not to mention the diabolical level of poverty that I will inevitably see. I feel initiated into Indian life already and most definitley feel ready for an adventure! :-)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)