Been away from the blog scene for over a month now. It has been a month since I left Mumbai to be in Delhi. June 08 for me was a month of inconsequential meetings, discussions and ominous telephone calls but also of incidental discoveries about self and common sense. Since I had some time to myself I decided to reconnect with friends and acquaintances. I made certain professional decisions during those meetings and helped others make theirs. I also experienced an unwanted insomnia for three very long nights in June. During one of the three nights that I spent struggling with my mind, coaxing and coercing it to sleep, I listened to Pandit Jasraj. The tireless mind that I was anxious to sedate began imagining the beautiful and solacing Ragamala paintings that I had once researched. After a long hiatus from my art-history days, I began to think of the colour pallette, characters and props in the early Mewar and Chawand paintings that I have had an opportunity to study closely. The artists (who probably were rasiks themselves and knew music) used a unique colour scheme, props and themes to represent the musical notes. These combinations of colour, theme, and positioning of characters became established as an acceptable iconography of ragas and raginis. As a student of the history of art, you can easily identify these painted Ragas and Raginis on the basis of, well, a kind of list. Soliatary woman with a deer/buck; lady with snakes in seclusion; the hot sun and a man on an elephant. Most later artists followed an established set of icons. It was much later that expansion and addition in the repertoire was made. But what has always amazed me is the initial process of visualization that the early artists undertook and the challenge that they must have facedd in transforming sounds into pictures.
As I tried hard that night to concentrate on the color gradations in these images I could not think anymore; my heavy eyes were falling into an abyss of darkness and just before Morpheus could finally take over my phone rang. It was a lady's voice I recogonized and in her classy accent she asked me if I would be interested in looking at a set of Raagmala paintings that she was researching into. It was 5.30 a.m. and I could no longer pretend to sleep. I left for a nearby park to get some exercise. The birds sounded as restless as I was at that hour. I sat observing a tall jamun tree; its freshly bathed leaves hung from drooping branches and its squashed fruit carpeted the soil around it. As I looked closer I noticed a swing hanging from one of its knotted branches. Just then a melodious voice blew toward me from a nearby Gurudwara. My yellow night dress fluttered around me as I swung through the air to the music.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Sunday, June 1, 2008
May the Best Team Win
I have just returned from a bar where I watched a nailbiting cricket performance. I am now sitting in my Mumbai apartment reflecting upon a moral that today's wonderful match has reminded me of. Much to my disappointment as a Punjab supporter, Chennai ended up in the final against the unbeatable Rajasthan Royals. Like most people who have been watching this crazy game of DLF IPL 20-20, I had imagined that it would be a flammable Royals against the Kings on June 1st. Yuvraj Singh, the Punjab Kings' captain, screwed up royally and his formidable team fell like a house of cards before the under-appreciated Chennai Super Kings. The Singh fell to the Super Kings--and why not? While the Super Singh from Jharkhand was doing his bit of 'chintan' before the big game, the Punjab King was caught leaping with the PYTs at a posh Bombay night club before his ruinal semi-final match. Yuvraj's fall was a testimony to the classic Panchatantra tale of the hare and tortoise. The men in yellow won the semis much to everyone's surprise--and disappointment for the bookies.
Today's match was hailed as the Royal's day out, but Chennai Super Kings put up a tough match. The team at one point held an unshakeable position. But as it happens in the game of cricket, Raina dropped a major catch that would have altered the course of the game. The most dangerous man in blue, Pathan, was dropped just when he was settling in. Pathan got luckier when another fumble led to a missed catch. The Super Kings in yellow clearly lost their logic when they misjudged two opportunities for 'run-outs' .
A team that screws up not once but so many times does not ultimately deserve to win, no matter how good the fight they put up. The Royals, on the other hand, played with the discpline to win. They were consistent and they followed their captian's game plan and strategy. During the last over, the batsman Tanvir did not get emotional to hit a big one. He followed a safe route to get the singles and doubles that would take the team to a tricky target. And then in the final over, Balaji gave away blunderous wide balls. The Royals could not have asked for more.
What really captured my heart was Dhoni's response. The captian was an image of equanimity. His smile at the loss of the tournament was incredibly beautiful. He had no malice. He played his best and then in an absolutely endearing act, he circled his men together and reconfirmed his faith in the lost team. Yes, the men in yellow made mistakes, but the leader is with them.
I would much rather place my country in the hands of a captain like Dhoni than the 'Singh is King'. Dhoni represents the values that we as a nation take pride in--tolerance and humility.
Today's match was hailed as the Royal's day out, but Chennai Super Kings put up a tough match. The team at one point held an unshakeable position. But as it happens in the game of cricket, Raina dropped a major catch that would have altered the course of the game. The most dangerous man in blue, Pathan, was dropped just when he was settling in. Pathan got luckier when another fumble led to a missed catch. The Super Kings in yellow clearly lost their logic when they misjudged two opportunities for 'run-outs' .
A team that screws up not once but so many times does not ultimately deserve to win, no matter how good the fight they put up. The Royals, on the other hand, played with the discpline to win. They were consistent and they followed their captian's game plan and strategy. During the last over, the batsman Tanvir did not get emotional to hit a big one. He followed a safe route to get the singles and doubles that would take the team to a tricky target. And then in the final over, Balaji gave away blunderous wide balls. The Royals could not have asked for more.
What really captured my heart was Dhoni's response. The captian was an image of equanimity. His smile at the loss of the tournament was incredibly beautiful. He had no malice. He played his best and then in an absolutely endearing act, he circled his men together and reconfirmed his faith in the lost team. Yes, the men in yellow made mistakes, but the leader is with them.
I would much rather place my country in the hands of a captain like Dhoni than the 'Singh is King'. Dhoni represents the values that we as a nation take pride in--tolerance and humility.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Fun things to do in Mumbai
Mumbai has everything for everyone-It has something for me too. Here's my list of fun things to do in Mumbai.
1. Walk around Dadar West Parsee Colony and the Hindu Colony to check-out some beautiful homes.
2. Visit the beautiful Babulnath Temple. Eat at Soam opposite Babul Nath temple.
3. Walk along the Queen's Necklace.
4. Walk around Mutton Street for incredible deals on antiques and art.
5. Shop for the best footwear in the country at Colaba Causeway. Start early afternoon for the best bargains.
6. Visit Chickoowadi, near Malwani Church, Malad
7. Walk from Altamount road to Carmichael road crossing the road under the Kemps Corner fly-over to Crosswords and have a smoothie at Moshe's.
8. Wander around Ballard Estate and look for your favourite lane that you want to return to. A cool thing to do on a Sunday morning would be to bring back a period costume and have yourself clicked on in a chic style.
10. Take a short walk in the Khotachi Wadi.
11. Go cycling in the Navy Nagar area and stop by the Afghan Church.
1. Walk around Dadar West Parsee Colony and the Hindu Colony to check-out some beautiful homes.
2. Visit the beautiful Babulnath Temple. Eat at Soam opposite Babul Nath temple.
3. Walk along the Queen's Necklace.
4. Walk around Mutton Street for incredible deals on antiques and art.
5. Shop for the best footwear in the country at Colaba Causeway. Start early afternoon for the best bargains.
6. Visit Chickoowadi, near Malwani Church, Malad
7. Walk from Altamount road to Carmichael road crossing the road under the Kemps Corner fly-over to Crosswords and have a smoothie at Moshe's.
8. Wander around Ballard Estate and look for your favourite lane that you want to return to. A cool thing to do on a Sunday morning would be to bring back a period costume and have yourself clicked on in a chic style.
10. Take a short walk in the Khotachi Wadi.
11. Go cycling in the Navy Nagar area and stop by the Afghan Church.
Friday, May 2, 2008
Finding a perfect spot called Home
Come May and I will be homeless, once again. After experiencing and failing to find effective ways to adjust to a life in provincial India with 12 hour power-cuts a day, I am heading to the big cities this summer. My May plans take me to Delhi and then Bombay.
Weeks of waiting to get a confirmed railway ticket kept me away from summer travel. Now that I have a ticket, a workable travel plan and a few scheduled meetings, I have cold feet. I am leaving the city I now call home. I am beginning to feel comfortable with it's people and landscape. And although, I am moving away from the sounds of screeching-honking bikes, urchins singing the latest 'Akshay Kumar' song, Mrs. Yadav's son playing loud music at 6 A.M, blasting generators and random visitors, I am also moving away from the world outside and inside of narrow lanes surrounding my haveli. My house named after a Banarasi poet is a known landmark of the city. Ratnakar Villa overlooks a lovely garden tended to lovingly by my landlady and her devoted maali who stays long after his working hours. The house is warm and naturally lit in the winters and airy in the summers. I worked hard to personalize the house by buying new furniture and upholstery. The long and mostly frustrating process of putting together the house piece-by-piece was an acid test. After the house came together in December, I felt confident that I could survive Uttar Pradesh.
I am again moving to an unknown space that needs to be home. After having converted and called 'University Guest Houses' in Gujarat, a 170 sq ft. space above a train track in Delhi, an archaic looking 'two-room set' in Nizamuddin West as home, I am now excited to find a new home. My sense of having a home is all about having a perfect spot where you get a good night's sleep and read a book before that good night's sleep.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Last week of April
Even though Banaras and it's erratic power supply becomes more intolerable this week, there was excitement that kept me going. One afternoon, Rakesh of Harmony Books called me and asked if I would be interested in working as a research assistant to a student from America. I was reluctant at first but I am glad I did not decline Leda's wonderful project on 'Maternity and Child care in Varanasi'. Leda and I went around town meeting with famous and in-famous O.B's, doctors, Axillary Nurse Midwives, trained dai's /nurses. During these meetings and interviews with Indian doctors, I found an appalling lack of passion. The doctors we met were uninspiring and lifeless souls who had little or no passion for life and the life-giving process. I am not complaining here about the urge to make money- but a much more malicious disease. Indian doctors never smile, they attend their patients by often not making an eye contact. While their hands are busy doing the business, their eyes are on the prescription. Before you have made yourself comfortable on the twirling patients stool, the assistant brings the next impatient patient.
I recently met a medical student who wishes to practice in America (It's her father's dream). After speaking with her for about half and hour on her professional and personal life, I did not have a heart to tell her that this was not her spot. I certainly could not tell her that by working harder than the other students in her medical exams (which she feels was a prestige issue) is a wasted effort, she is fulfilling only one person's dream.
Wish we had more doctors who looked into their patients eyes without feeling burdened by the look in them.
I recently met a medical student who wishes to practice in America (It's her father's dream). After speaking with her for about half and hour on her professional and personal life, I did not have a heart to tell her that this was not her spot. I certainly could not tell her that by working harder than the other students in her medical exams (which she feels was a prestige issue) is a wasted effort, she is fulfilling only one person's dream.
Wish we had more doctors who looked into their patients eyes without feeling burdened by the look in them.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Delhi in April
On the 10th of April, the Shiv Ganga Express reached New Delhi railway station at 11.00 a.m, four hours after it's scheduled time of arrival. The delay added to my frustration and agony caused by overtly affectionate newly-wed co-passengers. To kill time, I was scribbling notes on my pad; they read something like: Flavours, Rajdhani, Subway, Momos , Dilli haat, Spirit, Veda (the culinary delights I'd been deprived of in Varanasi). My co-passengers took my seeming focus on the notepad as an opportunity to make more romantic sounds. Shiv Ganga's arrival finally ended my agony, after stopping at every possible small station en route to Delhi.
Once I'd battled with auto and taxi drivers, I reached a friend's apartment in the noisy part of Greater Kailash I. I was not particularly pleased with the architect after seeing the apartment's design. After spending a night at the apartment, I was completely convinced the architect had no sense at all. There was no ventilation, the apartment faced the noisiest side of the building, the kitchen was massive and yet didn't seem functional for your average Indian cook, and there was no light. Living in that flat I discovered one of my hidden desires- remodelling badly constructed houses.
Delhi was the stimulus I needed to turn my lethargic bones into motion. By 4:00 pm every day I experienced a cherished sense of achievement. In Banaras, I feel a sense of achievement in getting my staff at home to do any kind of work. In a span of four working days in Delhi, within the constraints of the ever-so-short government working hours, I went to banks in two different directions, a clinic, and the state electricity department. I also held meetings in my office and strategized for the coming days. Post office hours, I hogged on incredible food, met friends and watched films. My favourite of all was Juno. Delhi in April is not exactly fun but the air-conditioner that rarely goes out from a power cut makes up for it.
Once I'd battled with auto and taxi drivers, I reached a friend's apartment in the noisy part of Greater Kailash I. I was not particularly pleased with the architect after seeing the apartment's design. After spending a night at the apartment, I was completely convinced the architect had no sense at all. There was no ventilation, the apartment faced the noisiest side of the building, the kitchen was massive and yet didn't seem functional for your average Indian cook, and there was no light. Living in that flat I discovered one of my hidden desires- remodelling badly constructed houses.
Delhi was the stimulus I needed to turn my lethargic bones into motion. By 4:00 pm every day I experienced a cherished sense of achievement. In Banaras, I feel a sense of achievement in getting my staff at home to do any kind of work. In a span of four working days in Delhi, within the constraints of the ever-so-short government working hours, I went to banks in two different directions, a clinic, and the state electricity department. I also held meetings in my office and strategized for the coming days. Post office hours, I hogged on incredible food, met friends and watched films. My favourite of all was Juno. Delhi in April is not exactly fun but the air-conditioner that rarely goes out from a power cut makes up for it.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Hindu Disneyland
I recently learned of a phrase used in the intellectual circles of America- Hindu Disneyland . I found this term so fascinating that like every other 'smart Alec' Indian, I am renaming it (for a more localized effect) Appu-Ghar Hinduism. There are many physical and physiological similarities between the two cults. It is common to see a Hindu bringing his maha-family of mother, father, widowed mother-in-law, visiting married sister with the 'jijaji', the kids, bhaiya, bhabi and the wife to a sacred Hindu site. As soon as the over-speeding, dust-covered Qualises (often with a neighbouring state's number plate) halt screechingly outside the pilgrimage center, the kids jump out and the men start looking for holes. The women complain about the long journey and their crushed sarees and pick up the water bottles that they most likely bought during the last trip.
During my recent trip to the Hindu holy site of Gupt-Godavari (litt. secret Godavari river), I had an opportunity to observe 'Appu-Ghar Hinduism' in action. In the late 1980s, to visit Appu-Ghar was not really the coolest thing to do, but we, the kids of upper-middle class parents, loved it. I loved the rides, ice-cream stands, and the Maggie counter; I loved shopping for some random thing I convinced my parents, I desperately needed, the inaudible announcements and the process of sticking with your parents in the crowds. The trip was more fun in a bigger group, it would give the kids a rare opportunity to wander around while mummy and aunties would share stories of their cruel mother-in-laws. The other hot topic was 'my kids'. I thought this exercise was an unsaid competetion of 'I suffered more' or 'I am a better mummy'. Nevertheless I loved Appu-Ghar.
The younger ladies walk together gossiping, sharing their shopping stories or casual neighbourhood stories that the listeners comment about. A common element is that these women are all dressed in their best 'outside home' clothes. They wear matching bangles, lipstick, bindis and Tulsi-inspired mid-hair vermillion that often shoots out like an arrow on their foreheads. The men walk talking about cell-phone or car models--Indian men genuinely refrain from talking about other kinds of models during family 'holy-site outings'. The group walks into the cave or temple together laughing and talking, unobservant of anything that surrounds them. At Gupt-Godavari they all enter a gufa, a cave under a barren surface from where the Godavari waters emerge-cool and clean. The group decides to play black-out with the family by calling out their names aloud. The names echo-they love it. A few others follow the trick. They also make indefinably blank eye-contact with the passerbys who have had their darshan. Smiling at strangers is such an un-Indian act but what is surely Indian is joining the passerbys in their loud 'hail God' calls. The group returns outside after darshan and resumes chatting about new topics.
During my recent trip to the Hindu holy site of Gupt-Godavari (litt. secret Godavari river), I had an opportunity to observe 'Appu-Ghar Hinduism' in action. In the late 1980s, to visit Appu-Ghar was not really the coolest thing to do, but we, the kids of upper-middle class parents, loved it. I loved the rides, ice-cream stands, and the Maggie counter; I loved shopping for some random thing I convinced my parents, I desperately needed, the inaudible announcements and the process of sticking with your parents in the crowds. The trip was more fun in a bigger group, it would give the kids a rare opportunity to wander around while mummy and aunties would share stories of their cruel mother-in-laws. The other hot topic was 'my kids'. I thought this exercise was an unsaid competetion of 'I suffered more' or 'I am a better mummy'. Nevertheless I loved Appu-Ghar.
The younger ladies walk together gossiping, sharing their shopping stories or casual neighbourhood stories that the listeners comment about. A common element is that these women are all dressed in their best 'outside home' clothes. They wear matching bangles, lipstick, bindis and Tulsi-inspired mid-hair vermillion that often shoots out like an arrow on their foreheads. The men walk talking about cell-phone or car models--Indian men genuinely refrain from talking about other kinds of models during family 'holy-site outings'. The group walks into the cave or temple together laughing and talking, unobservant of anything that surrounds them. At Gupt-Godavari they all enter a gufa, a cave under a barren surface from where the Godavari waters emerge-cool and clean. The group decides to play black-out with the family by calling out their names aloud. The names echo-they love it. A few others follow the trick. They also make indefinably blank eye-contact with the passerbys who have had their darshan. Smiling at strangers is such an un-Indian act but what is surely Indian is joining the passerbys in their loud 'hail God' calls. The group returns outside after darshan and resumes chatting about new topics.
Flames in a barren forest
Tall, dry, slim trunks supporting orangy-crimson blooms dominated our way to Jaitwara. Our airconditioned Innova sped through the narrow stretch of road between Gupt-Godavari Caves, where we had spent our morning, and Jaitwara. This town, close to Satna, is a small bauxite mining center in Madhya Pradesh. Our van filled with girly screams of 'papa!' to slow down. Papa momentarily acceded to decelerating, but couldn't resist the surprisingly smooth roads. Speeding past us were a few motorcyclists covered in colours. Despite a fleeting glimpse, I could not miss the distinct vermillion tilaks with random rice grains on their forheads. This was a day after Holi and people seemed to have forgotten the cardinal rule of rest after Dhulendi. A group of faceless village boys intending to have 'fun' tried to stop our speeding luxury. They were fully drenched and covered in colours, so dark and indiscriminate that I wondered if Holi was a festival of colour or muck. Our experienced driver, the 'papa' to four of our wonderful companions, deftly tried swerving the car to a 'no-danger' point from the boys. But those boys quickly remaneouvered: they motioned to let us by then hurled a bucket full of cow dung on the van, turning the rear glass opaque. The backview-less van rushed through a gorgeous landscape of brown-yellow hills, spreading trees, golden wheat farms, flowering mango orchards, dry plateaus, and valleys covered in old and new leaves. Now writing a month later, I may say that it was fun speeding through those valleys to Jaitwara. It could also be that this journey ended with a short visit to a wonderfully warm family. I must send the family a postcard soon. Their house and in fact their entire town was covered in a fine red dust. As they satisified my curiosity about the cause of the distinctive dust, I thought to myself that my Class X chemistry teacher must have never seen the metals described in Chapter 1 of our textbook. He never told us that before it becomes aluminum, bauxite is red.
But what is certain is that my class X Physics teacher knew nothing about Chapter 1 ( Metals and Non- Metals). He never told us that bauxite is red in colour.
But what is certain is that my class X Physics teacher knew nothing about Chapter 1 ( Metals and Non- Metals). He never told us that bauxite is red in colour.
Monday, April 7, 2008
Barefoot Soldiers
Google search gives away 33,500 hits on Tilonia. Tilonia is a tiny little place, smaller than the campus of Doon School where Mr. Bunker Roy was educated . In 1972, Sanjit Bunker Roy, a three time national squash champion, set up the Barefoot College at Tilonia. Barefoot is a place to unlearn and learn.
I visited Tilonia on 17th March with a view of visiting an NGO- like many others I had visited before. When I returned home to Delhi that evening, I wished my high school curriculum incorporated some 'unlearning' that the Barefoot emphasizes on.
What sets the College apart from the other NGO's, I have visited before are the barefooters who work there without a consideration for the weekends or office hours. The barefooted soldiers I met; Vasu ( a middle-class city intellectual born in the late 50's) , Dr. Bhattacharya ( practiced medicine at Ajmer and studied briefly in the U.K) , Bhagwat Nandan ( head of the solar energy department), Aunti ji (who I met at the dispensary) over the course of a four hour visit were all unique individuals. They all had their own reasons to be at the institute. They all unlearnt what they had learnt earlier in life- at medical school, at university, at home or at work. They live in a world where expertise on fixing a hyperbolic solar cooker gets them the coveted title of an engineer. At the centre, we met weavers who made music with their looms, toy makers (used waste material), durrie makers, electric circuit making Barefoot engineers teaching other students from Bhutan, Africa and India (outside of Tilonia) . The entire atmosphere was like a Gandhian ashram except the Western Union money transfers. The food cooked by an all men team was made using a solar cooker. I ended up eating a lot of food- was delicious.
It was interesting to see women fixing the mirror discs and fixing electric circuits and men cooking food using their products to cook delicious food.
Visit Barefoot to help a chip fall freely off your shoulder.
I visited Tilonia on 17th March with a view of visiting an NGO- like many others I had visited before. When I returned home to Delhi that evening, I wished my high school curriculum incorporated some 'unlearning' that the Barefoot emphasizes on.
What sets the College apart from the other NGO's, I have visited before are the barefooters who work there without a consideration for the weekends or office hours. The barefooted soldiers I met; Vasu ( a middle-class city intellectual born in the late 50's) , Dr. Bhattacharya ( practiced medicine at Ajmer and studied briefly in the U.K) , Bhagwat Nandan ( head of the solar energy department), Aunti ji (who I met at the dispensary) over the course of a four hour visit were all unique individuals. They all had their own reasons to be at the institute. They all unlearnt what they had learnt earlier in life- at medical school, at university, at home or at work. They live in a world where expertise on fixing a hyperbolic solar cooker gets them the coveted title of an engineer. At the centre, we met weavers who made music with their looms, toy makers (used waste material), durrie makers, electric circuit making Barefoot engineers teaching other students from Bhutan, Africa and India (outside of Tilonia) . The entire atmosphere was like a Gandhian ashram except the Western Union money transfers. The food cooked by an all men team was made using a solar cooker. I ended up eating a lot of food- was delicious.
It was interesting to see women fixing the mirror discs and fixing electric circuits and men cooking food using their products to cook delicious food.
Visit Barefoot to help a chip fall freely off your shoulder.
Sunday, April 6, 2008
Brahma's Progeny
Two weeks ago, I spent a wonderful Sunday in Pushkar, Rajasthan. Pushkar is quaint, white-washed, colourful and surprisingly peaceful --as any pilgrim town compared to Banaras would be. I stayed at the wonderfully located Pushkar Palace--above the lake. My room, though not good value for the money, had a projecting balcony that I had never had the chance to take advantage of. The phone calls, travel arrangements and tiresome journey kept me away from the view. To overcome my guilt, I slept that night with the balcony door open to the lake. It was nothing short of the scene from Chaudhavin ka Chand, where gauzy curtains caress a half-sleepy Wahida Rehman's face.
Pushkar is rewarding-it has the trees, marigold gardens, women in Rajasthani costume (with covered heads and plunging necklines) picking the flowers (offering a small bouquet for me), chiming camels, a wonderful reflexologist (a better human being) and silence. But my memories of Pushkar are also scarred with reports of sexual abuse and hippy orgies, plastic trash-covered dunes, mushrooming hotels and their clueless owners.
I had heard that riding a camel cart is a good way to release oneself- I did just that and walked right into the setting sun over the stunted hills. The headless neem trees (used for animals) and shiny black plastic covering the sand eventually led me to a perfect spot- in between two sister hills. The silence was eerie and adding to the unnaturalness was haunting music played on an ektara by two young boys. The two did not go to a school-there are no good jobs anyways. The camel driver, son of a mining labourer sends his son to a private school. The government schools offer no education. His eldest son is a graduate and wants to study law. "There are no jobs, why should he waste more years", he says wryly.
My camel driver was a 40 year old, light-eyed man. Accompanying him was his 8 year old. The father wished to take another route on the way back to the hotel, asked his son to check whether the gate to the exit was open. Deepak sped off, signaling his father to keep moving to the gate. A minute later, his uncertain father asked him to double check. Deepak ran faster than any 8 year old I had seen at the Blue Bells School sports day. Apologetically, he waved a big NO. Running and gaping, Deepak took a 20 second break to breathe and climbed into the cart. The two shared no more words and rode us through the well-lit Pushkar bazaars. I spent the rest of the evening wondering, "When was the last time I did something for my father?”
Pushkar is rewarding-it has the trees, marigold gardens, women in Rajasthani costume (with covered heads and plunging necklines) picking the flowers (offering a small bouquet for me), chiming camels, a wonderful reflexologist (a better human being) and silence. But my memories of Pushkar are also scarred with reports of sexual abuse and hippy orgies, plastic trash-covered dunes, mushrooming hotels and their clueless owners.
I had heard that riding a camel cart is a good way to release oneself- I did just that and walked right into the setting sun over the stunted hills. The headless neem trees (used for animals) and shiny black plastic covering the sand eventually led me to a perfect spot- in between two sister hills. The silence was eerie and adding to the unnaturalness was haunting music played on an ektara by two young boys. The two did not go to a school-there are no good jobs anyways. The camel driver, son of a mining labourer sends his son to a private school. The government schools offer no education. His eldest son is a graduate and wants to study law. "There are no jobs, why should he waste more years", he says wryly.
My camel driver was a 40 year old, light-eyed man. Accompanying him was his 8 year old. The father wished to take another route on the way back to the hotel, asked his son to check whether the gate to the exit was open. Deepak sped off, signaling his father to keep moving to the gate. A minute later, his uncertain father asked him to double check. Deepak ran faster than any 8 year old I had seen at the Blue Bells School sports day. Apologetically, he waved a big NO. Running and gaping, Deepak took a 20 second break to breathe and climbed into the cart. The two shared no more words and rode us through the well-lit Pushkar bazaars. I spent the rest of the evening wondering, "When was the last time I did something for my father?”
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
How green was my valley?
On the morning of seventh of November 2007, Shiv-Ganga Express of the North Eastern Railways brought me to a city I had never visited before. This city is the one that every Hindu in the world desires to visit at least once in a lifetime. There are countless places of religious importance to Hindus in India. Yet, none of these places compare to Varanasi, the city of Shiva on the banks of Ganga.
My parents both upper caste Hindus have never visited Varanasi. Something tells me they never will. My father has traveled extensively in this part of the country. Despite his familiarity with this region, my father, a pious Brahman has never visited this holiest of the holy city. He dislikes what one sees in this region- gross poverty, corruption and virtually no development. He also finds this region highly disturbing as he fails to understand the deep rooted complexities seen in every aspect of life here. Though my father likes to have a holy dip of Ganga twice every year, he does so at a cleaner spot in Haridwar, a town not far removed from his.
My parents both upper caste Hindus have never visited Varanasi. Something tells me they never will. My father has traveled extensively in this part of the country. Despite his familiarity with this region, my father, a pious Brahman has never visited this holiest of the holy city. He dislikes what one sees in this region- gross poverty, corruption and virtually no development. He also finds this region highly disturbing as he fails to understand the deep rooted complexities seen in every aspect of life here. Though my father likes to have a holy dip of Ganga twice every year, he does so at a cleaner spot in Haridwar, a town not far removed from his.
Being the first member in my family to visit Varanasi, I faced some bit of envy and some ridicule. “Why would you choose to go to a city of cow dung and pee?” asked my mother trying hard to convince me otherwise. Clearly, the pretty Incredible India posters of Varanasi did not leave much of an impression on my mother. I decided not to not mention an article titled ‘Varanasi-Shit Hole of the Gods’ that I had read a week before. Today, in retrospect I know the immediate reason I decided to move to Uttar Pradesh was to find just how bad the ‘evil land’ can be.
For me the region of Uttar Pradesh and Bihar till November 2007 was a land where the goondas lived. This was the land where you could get killed in an instance. Newspaper reports on U.P and neighbouring Bihar were full of crime, gang rape of Dalit women, murder and kidnapping. As a student of history, I learnt that U.P and Bihar geographically fall in the region that formed the first ever organized monarchies and oligarchies in India’s history. These two states have also produced some of the best remembered figures in Indian History and contemporary Indian society. This historical fact is in all likelihood forgotten by all Indians like my father in lieu of a memory of the biggest scams, corruption charges, trafficking and goondaraj. He like many other Indians addresses people of U.P and Bihar as bhaiyyas (brothers) and likes to entertain people at a social with his reserve of ‘attributes’ and ‘characteristics’ of the bhaiyyas.
I found Varanasi like any other city in North India that I had seen before. As I took an auto to get to my new home, I passed by small food stalls, auto repairs shops, large hoardings and shanties around the railway station- nothing uncommon to Indian cities, small or big.
As our auto rickshaw jumped over historic potholes, pools of pee and cow poop, we barely escaped two massive bulls blocking nearly 10 feet wide roads. I was already working a date to return back to Delhi in my mind. I could not help but observe that one thing that outnumbers temples and saree shops in Varanasi is the paan ki dukaan. Viola! I had finally arrived in the Bhaiyyadom. The jokes that my father shared with his friends and family about the bhaiyyas were all falling flat on me. I had arrived in the land of orangy spit marks and garbage.
After a week of deafening Diwali celebrations in the city, I decided to explore the eternal city on what else but a cycle rickshaw. It was a big circus outside with riotous processions blocking major roads. SUV’s of the Samajwadi Party (chief opposition and the last ruling party in U.P) leaders who sat in the vehicles chewing paan, wearing their aviator glasses zipped through the narrow roads. What I saw disturbed me- pedestrians, cyclists, rickshaw-wallas alike as also mine all drew themselves to a corner in a display of bizarre surrender. I learnt my first traffic rule in Varanasi. No one gives way to alarming ambulance vans but police or goonda jeeps.
My rickshaw-walla, a 40+ Yadav told me that it is best to give sides or else you would be trampled under these speeding jeeps. I noticed that he did not pay attention to heaviness of his words. I returned home all upset and ready to leave for Delhi. But the very next day I was all excited about going out again.
Despite having lived in Varanasi for four months now, I have problem understanding our rickshaw-wallas, sabzi-walla, and grocery-walla not because of the bhojpuri dialect but paan full mouth. I was annoyed with the ease that everyone I dealt, with carried on their sleeve. I pass by rows of squatted men; rickshawwallas, subzi-wallas, dukaandars gossiping for hours on the side of narrow roads. I have often wonder what they speak about.
Uttar Pradesh and Bihar are the strong bastions of the concept of ‘traditional India’. Rarely seen things in Delhi like happy joint-families, sarees clad women with covered heads, celebration of underdog festivals in the Hindu calendar and wishing each other by hailing God are a way of life here. I also discovered during my conversations with the locals that these are not some mandatory burdensome rituals, Banarasis are proud on being able to live this life of tradition. It makes me happy to hear people I meet in Varanasi speak in high Hindi. This is my mother language that I had left behind in school text books.
To get my household started in Varanasi, I dealt with people who did not speak a language I thought originated from this region. One of my early achievements in the city was to get people to know their duties and settling their salaries. I considered myself particularly lucky when I found someone to take the garbage away. To find someone in Delhi at the rate she quoted would be finding roses in a public garden. I decided to pay her some extra for the mighty job that includes collecting garbage in a big bag and putting it away into a municipal container at some distance. In the evening while returning home from my city visit, I found all the trash she had collected in the morning outside my house's main gate.
To find garbage on the roads after the homes have been cleaned spic and span, playing loud (est) music, screaming and shouting in private or public are by no means a reflection of a selfish society. “This is an outburst of a suppressed society that was let loose overnight.” My landlady who belongs to a well-known aristocratic family of Varanasi explained, “We all live in a zoo that that where the lions and tigers are in chains and the monkeys are let loose. The historic pyramid of hierarchy has been reversed and I am saying this with my personal experience, people who served us earlier and who cannot sign their names, are now making decisions for us.”
It is indeed awkward if I think about it. I have never been able to understand why Uttar Pradesh and Bihar is still so backward. Our domestic help used her earnings from me to buy the latest cell phone in the market and asked me to load up a phone tune. “Why don’t these people use their money to give their children good food or good clothes?" I was thinking aloud. Their children are dying of malnutrition and disease. Men buy latest phones, spend money on cigarettes and alcohol but never buy medicines for their sick wives. "They have ten or twelve children on an average and the four to five year olds are left to look after new born. All this is despite our constant warnings about women’s health and awareness campaigns. How can you expect them to be study? The just want to live for the day.”, said a friend who works as an intern at the city's well-known university hospital. “In Banaras there are many people who wish to donate to the temple but the priests are all chors, they suck up the money and send it to their sons to start a new business.” Mrs. Yadav my neighbour says. Mrs. Yadav's son has started a new business allegedly with the money that he was 'gifted' by his good American friend. She invited him to move to Kentucky but he did not want to leave India where his parents live.
Mrs. Yadav is right, this is a city built with donations. Maharajas and their families, rich zamindars and pilgrims were all eager to shed some percentage of their money, whether hard or easy earned. To donate to a temple and the city would earn them spiritual merit. Patrons from all over India donated generously, built magnificent temples, some migrated, and others built vacation homes. It is not a coincidence that most of the extant havelis were built either by Bengalis or Banias who came from Rajasthan or Haryana. By the mid 18th century the landscape that was primarily forest covered with a few ponds in between started to expand southward along the banks of Ganga. (It is believed that it was in this forest that the Buddha left his Brahman companions before attaining enlightenment.) Because of a highly strategic position of the city; in between the two economic zones and rich alluvial soil deposited by the Ganga many traders and mercantile communities from the country settled here. It may not be presumptuous to say that Varanasi in the 19th century was as or more cosmopolitan than New York today.
Despite having lived in Varanasi for four months now, I have problem understanding our rickshaw-wallas, sabzi-walla, and grocery-walla not because of the bhojpuri dialect but paan full mouth. I was annoyed with the ease that everyone I dealt, with carried on their sleeve. I pass by rows of squatted men; rickshawwallas, subzi-wallas, dukaandars gossiping for hours on the side of narrow roads. I have often wonder what they speak about.
Uttar Pradesh and Bihar are the strong bastions of the concept of ‘traditional India’. Rarely seen things in Delhi like happy joint-families, sarees clad women with covered heads, celebration of underdog festivals in the Hindu calendar and wishing each other by hailing God are a way of life here. I also discovered during my conversations with the locals that these are not some mandatory burdensome rituals, Banarasis are proud on being able to live this life of tradition. It makes me happy to hear people I meet in Varanasi speak in high Hindi. This is my mother language that I had left behind in school text books.
To get my household started in Varanasi, I dealt with people who did not speak a language I thought originated from this region. One of my early achievements in the city was to get people to know their duties and settling their salaries. I considered myself particularly lucky when I found someone to take the garbage away. To find someone in Delhi at the rate she quoted would be finding roses in a public garden. I decided to pay her some extra for the mighty job that includes collecting garbage in a big bag and putting it away into a municipal container at some distance. In the evening while returning home from my city visit, I found all the trash she had collected in the morning outside my house's main gate.
To find garbage on the roads after the homes have been cleaned spic and span, playing loud (est) music, screaming and shouting in private or public are by no means a reflection of a selfish society. “This is an outburst of a suppressed society that was let loose overnight.” My landlady who belongs to a well-known aristocratic family of Varanasi explained, “We all live in a zoo that that where the lions and tigers are in chains and the monkeys are let loose. The historic pyramid of hierarchy has been reversed and I am saying this with my personal experience, people who served us earlier and who cannot sign their names, are now making decisions for us.”
It is indeed awkward if I think about it. I have never been able to understand why Uttar Pradesh and Bihar is still so backward. Our domestic help used her earnings from me to buy the latest cell phone in the market and asked me to load up a phone tune. “Why don’t these people use their money to give their children good food or good clothes?" I was thinking aloud. Their children are dying of malnutrition and disease. Men buy latest phones, spend money on cigarettes and alcohol but never buy medicines for their sick wives. "They have ten or twelve children on an average and the four to five year olds are left to look after new born. All this is despite our constant warnings about women’s health and awareness campaigns. How can you expect them to be study? The just want to live for the day.”, said a friend who works as an intern at the city's well-known university hospital. “In Banaras there are many people who wish to donate to the temple but the priests are all chors, they suck up the money and send it to their sons to start a new business.” Mrs. Yadav my neighbour says. Mrs. Yadav's son has started a new business allegedly with the money that he was 'gifted' by his good American friend. She invited him to move to Kentucky but he did not want to leave India where his parents live.
Mrs. Yadav is right, this is a city built with donations. Maharajas and their families, rich zamindars and pilgrims were all eager to shed some percentage of their money, whether hard or easy earned. To donate to a temple and the city would earn them spiritual merit. Patrons from all over India donated generously, built magnificent temples, some migrated, and others built vacation homes. It is not a coincidence that most of the extant havelis were built either by Bengalis or Banias who came from Rajasthan or Haryana. By the mid 18th century the landscape that was primarily forest covered with a few ponds in between started to expand southward along the banks of Ganga. (It is believed that it was in this forest that the Buddha left his Brahman companions before attaining enlightenment.) Because of a highly strategic position of the city; in between the two economic zones and rich alluvial soil deposited by the Ganga many traders and mercantile communities from the country settled here. It may not be presumptuous to say that Varanasi in the 19th century was as or more cosmopolitan than New York today.
One can imagine British men on horse backs, Bengali men and women in palkis, Marwari traders in horse carriages and Marathi pilgrims in boats. All these communities today have their own mohallas and their own grocer, jeweller, saree walla, specialist carpenter, mason who either speaks the language they did or was referred to by their community members. This developed a close nexus of patron-service men that one sees even today. There were a few communities however, whose presence in Varanasi is surprising. One of them is that of the Chinese.
Shee- Teh a 23 year old runs one of the most modern beauty salons in the city. Her great grandfather, a doctor came to Varanasi from China and settled here. Meeting Shee-Teh reminded me of my earliest visual memory of a beauty parlour I visited with my mother in my home town of Gurgaon. The plywood walls were full of posters of Chinese women with different haircuts. Visiting a Chinese beauty parlour and getting your hair cut like one of the women from the poster printed in China in the early1980’s was a trendy affair in India in the late 1980's. People just surrendered their hair to the hairdresser. I particularly remember the Nepalese owner of the parlour my mother and her friends visited. There was no friend of my mother that I knew in 1985 who would not call her ‘the Chineje lady’, 'Nepalese lady' would have been too close. Since it helped business and preserved its unique selling point, the Nepalese owner employed girls only from North-Eastern states and subsequently they all were called Chineje assistants.
Shee- Teh a 23 year old runs one of the most modern beauty salons in the city. Her great grandfather, a doctor came to Varanasi from China and settled here. Meeting Shee-Teh reminded me of my earliest visual memory of a beauty parlour I visited with my mother in my home town of Gurgaon. The plywood walls were full of posters of Chinese women with different haircuts. Visiting a Chinese beauty parlour and getting your hair cut like one of the women from the poster printed in China in the early1980’s was a trendy affair in India in the late 1980's. People just surrendered their hair to the hairdresser. I particularly remember the Nepalese owner of the parlour my mother and her friends visited. There was no friend of my mother that I knew in 1985 who would not call her ‘the Chineje lady’, 'Nepalese lady' would have been too close. Since it helped business and preserved its unique selling point, the Nepalese owner employed girls only from North-Eastern states and subsequently they all were called Chineje assistants.
Shee-Teh’s mother is of also Chinese origin and runs the most successful and over-priced beauty salon in Varanasi, Eve's. At She-Teh's parlour you have the best beauty products and treatments and Abba, the Beatles, Billy Joel and Jimmy Hendrix. Her assistants have three things in common, fair skin, trendy modern clothes and their village. They all are Nepalese and related to each other by blood or familial ties. However, the two Indian girls who work at the salon are dark, wear Indian clothes and are always seen doing less important jobs. I wondered the reason behind this- could it be that they call her Sita and not Shee-Teh.
I visited another beauty parlour in the neighbourhood. The parlour is ostensibly called 'The Chinese Beauty Parlour'. I found signs in Chinese and Hebrew on the outside and hairstyle posters similar to the ones I had seen in the 1980’s inviting. I pulled the dark tinted glass door excitedly and found myself in a room roughly 15feet by 9feet. I saw two middle aged saree-clad aunties sitting on an old bench. A few inches away from the seated ladies were a motor-bike and a cycle. A synthetic saree-clad auntie was threading a client’s eye brow. Reflecting our bodies was a plastic creeper-framed large rectangular mirror. Surprisingly, the chair on which the client whose eye-brows were being threaded sat facing the entrance door and not the rectangular mirror. There was no electricity in the city so they needed natural light that filtered in from the ripped portions of the dark-tint sheet on the door. The ‘Chinese Beauty Parlour’ is run by an Indian who does not have a connection with China. She even admitted to not knowing anything about China but likes ‘Chineje’ food.
Banaras’s cosmopolitanism is truly marvelous. I have read stories of economic-interdependency of the two communities; Hindus and Muslims and the resultant peace that was maintained despite pressing situations until 1992 when the Babri Mosque fell. One of the most interesting stories I read was about a communal conflict in 1809. An immediate after-effect of the arrests was a unique jail strike by those arrested in the conflict. Muslims prisoners joined the Hindus in protest against the ill-treatment of upper castes in the jail.
Banarasi silk and brocade are world famous. Favoured by the Mughals and the later Indian princes, Banarasi sarees enjoyed the status of being a must have in an Indian girl’s wedding trousseau until recently. These days everything Punjabi and associated is enjoying nation-wide attention. I am no longer surprised to see women wearing Punjabi style clothes at a south Indian wedding with Bhangra music playing in the background. Tele-serials and films have further helped promote this trend. Though everyone in Banaras talks about Banaras silk as dying (just as they say about everything Banarasi), there are some people who have taken Banarasi fabric to the haute-couture. One of them is a Nift (National Institute of Fashion Technology, a highly prestigious fashion institute) graduate from Mumbai, Hemang Agrawal. All of 28, Hemang has taken his father's humble saree business to international fashion houses. Hemang informed me that the weavers are both Hindu and Muslim. Earlier the Muslim weavers outnumbered the Hindus. But now Hindus julahas from neighbouring villages form a majority of weavers. Many Muslim weavers went into other businesses like telephone and photocopying booth or migrated else where in search of 'service'.
I have over a month now been meeting with a few master weavers, small weavers and gaddidaars that our friends recommended in order to buy a saree I want to buy. This particular saree is a museum piece that I saw in an old catalogue. But I found through my interactions with various people that the sarees with the same pattern and technique as seen in the catalogue was popular till the 1970’s. But today only a handful of weavers can weave the kind I want. I met with one of the five recommended weavers. Their product was not only a poor copy in comparison with what I had asked for, but exorbitantly priced. This set me to think why a buyer willing to pay more money than usual does not find product to his satisfaction.
I visited another beauty parlour in the neighbourhood. The parlour is ostensibly called 'The Chinese Beauty Parlour'. I found signs in Chinese and Hebrew on the outside and hairstyle posters similar to the ones I had seen in the 1980’s inviting. I pulled the dark tinted glass door excitedly and found myself in a room roughly 15feet by 9feet. I saw two middle aged saree-clad aunties sitting on an old bench. A few inches away from the seated ladies were a motor-bike and a cycle. A synthetic saree-clad auntie was threading a client’s eye brow. Reflecting our bodies was a plastic creeper-framed large rectangular mirror. Surprisingly, the chair on which the client whose eye-brows were being threaded sat facing the entrance door and not the rectangular mirror. There was no electricity in the city so they needed natural light that filtered in from the ripped portions of the dark-tint sheet on the door. The ‘Chinese Beauty Parlour’ is run by an Indian who does not have a connection with China. She even admitted to not knowing anything about China but likes ‘Chineje’ food.
Banaras’s cosmopolitanism is truly marvelous. I have read stories of economic-interdependency of the two communities; Hindus and Muslims and the resultant peace that was maintained despite pressing situations until 1992 when the Babri Mosque fell. One of the most interesting stories I read was about a communal conflict in 1809. An immediate after-effect of the arrests was a unique jail strike by those arrested in the conflict. Muslims prisoners joined the Hindus in protest against the ill-treatment of upper castes in the jail.
Banarasi silk and brocade are world famous. Favoured by the Mughals and the later Indian princes, Banarasi sarees enjoyed the status of being a must have in an Indian girl’s wedding trousseau until recently. These days everything Punjabi and associated is enjoying nation-wide attention. I am no longer surprised to see women wearing Punjabi style clothes at a south Indian wedding with Bhangra music playing in the background. Tele-serials and films have further helped promote this trend. Though everyone in Banaras talks about Banaras silk as dying (just as they say about everything Banarasi), there are some people who have taken Banarasi fabric to the haute-couture. One of them is a Nift (National Institute of Fashion Technology, a highly prestigious fashion institute) graduate from Mumbai, Hemang Agrawal. All of 28, Hemang has taken his father's humble saree business to international fashion houses. Hemang informed me that the weavers are both Hindu and Muslim. Earlier the Muslim weavers outnumbered the Hindus. But now Hindus julahas from neighbouring villages form a majority of weavers. Many Muslim weavers went into other businesses like telephone and photocopying booth or migrated else where in search of 'service'.
I have over a month now been meeting with a few master weavers, small weavers and gaddidaars that our friends recommended in order to buy a saree I want to buy. This particular saree is a museum piece that I saw in an old catalogue. But I found through my interactions with various people that the sarees with the same pattern and technique as seen in the catalogue was popular till the 1970’s. But today only a handful of weavers can weave the kind I want. I met with one of the five recommended weavers. Their product was not only a poor copy in comparison with what I had asked for, but exorbitantly priced. This set me to think why a buyer willing to pay more money than usual does not find product to his satisfaction.
Does it signify loss of skill or simply laziness as Hemang puts it. Is it something more than what is apparent on the surface? The fact that I was buying directly from a weaver meant that I was cutting the share of a broker and the gaddidar wholesaler and the retail buyer. The product I asked for therefore should have been cheaper but it was more expensive than a retailer's. Also, the choice at a weaver is limited. A retailer has many varieties of sarees that come from different weavers.
In the world of saree business there are zari makers, zari traders, yarn makers (separate for the warp and the weft); yarn traders, middlemen (brokers), wholesalers, retailers involved. It takes as many as these people for a saree to reach customers. Many more invisible agents are involved in today’s saree business. Silk from China as opposed to Mysore is preferred by the power-loom weavers, mostly used is fake zari (plastic or polyster) from Surat as opposed to real gold or silver ones from Varanasi, dyeing agents are chemical as opposed to natural and these products travel from all over the country and outside to make this a complex business. A basic weaver working for a master weaver may get Rs. 300 for a saree that sells for Rs. 3000 in the market.
Loss of skill is also because a generation of weavers is now weaving in demand, Punjabi style sarees. A new class of people is embroidering on crepe sarees- something that they were unaccustomed to 30 years ago. Demand for real handloom Banarasi saree woven in Mysore silk with real zari shrunk post the polyester and synthetic revolution. For those who still prefer buying handloom sarees there are the handful of weavers that I was introduced to. Says Momin a weaver, “Madam, change is natural. My grandfather can not ride my motorcycle, the same way I cannot work on his loom, in his style.”
It is bizarre to see countless children on the streets and also the same number of government-run primary schools in Banaras. Oblivious to a tomorrow that my friends in Delhi are obsessed with, here the young boys seem contend singing Bollywood songs with their volume going higher each time a young girl passes them. To question what they are celebrating despite broken roads, no water or electricity supply, lawlessness and chaos is easy to answer. They are celebrating life- the art of living that my friends in Delhi have forgotten.
Today's Banaras is a world I used to know in the small town I grew up in the1980’s. The world where shopkeepers are uncles ji’s, neighbours are brothers and sisters and I am a Didi and not Madam. These people will happily sell goods on loan, feed me when I am hungry, help me settle my home. These are also the same people who play loud music despite my repeated requests, much to my agaony break their old beautiful heritage homes, exploit workers and litter on the streets. This is Banaras: where you can live they way you want to live. This is where tradition has redefined itself, self-pride is almost difficult to comprehend and the ideals of the good and the bad vary from one paan chewer to the other. “As my rickshaw walla once said array Didi yeh Shiv ki Nagari hai, yahan sab chalta hai aur sab maaf hai.” “Good, wrong, right is all okay and pardoned when you live in this city under the protective canopy of Shiva.”
It is not just this sense of nostalgia but this celebration amidst the fatalistic attitude of almost not wanting to know or dealing with tomorrow that disturbs me most. What also disturbs me is that it was peace that I was looking for when I lived and travelled in the finest cities in the world. This peace eluded me in awe-inspiring cities with museums, cafes and art. I am at peace amidst the sounds of raucous jumping monkeys on my terrace and hungry mowing cows outside my balcony, beeping, incessantly honking cars and bikes right in my ears, mixed sounds of Bollywood music and sacred chanting from the neighbourhood, noisy drums accompanying dead bodies and celebratory processions… here in Varanasi it is all mixed as one.
In the world of saree business there are zari makers, zari traders, yarn makers (separate for the warp and the weft); yarn traders, middlemen (brokers), wholesalers, retailers involved. It takes as many as these people for a saree to reach customers. Many more invisible agents are involved in today’s saree business. Silk from China as opposed to Mysore is preferred by the power-loom weavers, mostly used is fake zari (plastic or polyster) from Surat as opposed to real gold or silver ones from Varanasi, dyeing agents are chemical as opposed to natural and these products travel from all over the country and outside to make this a complex business. A basic weaver working for a master weaver may get Rs. 300 for a saree that sells for Rs. 3000 in the market.
Loss of skill is also because a generation of weavers is now weaving in demand, Punjabi style sarees. A new class of people is embroidering on crepe sarees- something that they were unaccustomed to 30 years ago. Demand for real handloom Banarasi saree woven in Mysore silk with real zari shrunk post the polyester and synthetic revolution. For those who still prefer buying handloom sarees there are the handful of weavers that I was introduced to. Says Momin a weaver, “Madam, change is natural. My grandfather can not ride my motorcycle, the same way I cannot work on his loom, in his style.”
It is bizarre to see countless children on the streets and also the same number of government-run primary schools in Banaras. Oblivious to a tomorrow that my friends in Delhi are obsessed with, here the young boys seem contend singing Bollywood songs with their volume going higher each time a young girl passes them. To question what they are celebrating despite broken roads, no water or electricity supply, lawlessness and chaos is easy to answer. They are celebrating life- the art of living that my friends in Delhi have forgotten.
Today's Banaras is a world I used to know in the small town I grew up in the1980’s. The world where shopkeepers are uncles ji’s, neighbours are brothers and sisters and I am a Didi and not Madam. These people will happily sell goods on loan, feed me when I am hungry, help me settle my home. These are also the same people who play loud music despite my repeated requests, much to my agaony break their old beautiful heritage homes, exploit workers and litter on the streets. This is Banaras: where you can live they way you want to live. This is where tradition has redefined itself, self-pride is almost difficult to comprehend and the ideals of the good and the bad vary from one paan chewer to the other. “As my rickshaw walla once said array Didi yeh Shiv ki Nagari hai, yahan sab chalta hai aur sab maaf hai.” “Good, wrong, right is all okay and pardoned when you live in this city under the protective canopy of Shiva.”
It is not just this sense of nostalgia but this celebration amidst the fatalistic attitude of almost not wanting to know or dealing with tomorrow that disturbs me most. What also disturbs me is that it was peace that I was looking for when I lived and travelled in the finest cities in the world. This peace eluded me in awe-inspiring cities with museums, cafes and art. I am at peace amidst the sounds of raucous jumping monkeys on my terrace and hungry mowing cows outside my balcony, beeping, incessantly honking cars and bikes right in my ears, mixed sounds of Bollywood music and sacred chanting from the neighbourhood, noisy drums accompanying dead bodies and celebratory processions… here in Varanasi it is all mixed as one.
Chitrakoot and Beyond
It took me a minute to recollect the reference for Chitrakoot. Believe it or not the bulb lit with image of Arun Govil and Deepika, the demi-gods of Indian television in a sylvan studio set. Chitrakoot, where Rama, Sita and Lakshman had camped during their 13 year exile is a 4 hour drive from Allahabad. The trio's stay at Chitrakoot was in fact the climax of sorts for the 'victory over evil' part of the epic. Had the golden deer ( evil Ravan in disguise) not happened the three exiled would have been content travelling in the jungles of Madhya Pradesh and returned after 13 years of vanvaas.
We reached Chitrakoot late in the night. Our stay arrangement was at a hotel in Chitrakoot away from Akansha's family haveli in Karvi, a small town adjoining Chitrakoot. At 9.30 P.M it was pitch dark in the town. Most of the shops were shut and I had no sense of where we were. The car stopped outside an ornate haveli .... this was the first good sign.
Akansha's family is that of sarafs or jewellers and they live in a jeweller's lane. Two jewellery shops owned by the family open onto the road outside and a passage between the two leads to the first courtyard of the house. Around the courtyard are rooms and a small room dedicated to the family devta. This was presumably a mardana portion of the house in earlier days. Now the rooms on the ground floor remain locked. A second courtyard is again surrounded by rooms, one of which is home to the family cow. Both courtyards have stairs that lead to the first floor.
Akansha's grandparents occupy a large room overlooking the street outside, the first as you reach the first floor. The first floor is a replica of the ground . The four brothers have separate portions around the two courtyards on the first floor. We were served lavish south Indian dinner with a local delicacy Kheer Mohan as sweets.
We reached Chitrakoot late in the night. Our stay arrangement was at a hotel in Chitrakoot away from Akansha's family haveli in Karvi, a small town adjoining Chitrakoot. At 9.30 P.M it was pitch dark in the town. Most of the shops were shut and I had no sense of where we were. The car stopped outside an ornate haveli .... this was the first good sign.
Akansha's family is that of sarafs or jewellers and they live in a jeweller's lane. Two jewellery shops owned by the family open onto the road outside and a passage between the two leads to the first courtyard of the house. Around the courtyard are rooms and a small room dedicated to the family devta. This was presumably a mardana portion of the house in earlier days. Now the rooms on the ground floor remain locked. A second courtyard is again surrounded by rooms, one of which is home to the family cow. Both courtyards have stairs that lead to the first floor.
Akansha's grandparents occupy a large room overlooking the street outside, the first as you reach the first floor. The first floor is a replica of the ground . The four brothers have separate portions around the two courtyards on the first floor. We were served lavish south Indian dinner with a local delicacy Kheer Mohan as sweets.
Just as we were leaving for the guest house, the hostess Mrs. Agrawal concluded that ‘we’ were simple affectionate folks like ‘them’ and since we were one of them we should stay back and spend the night with the family. Soon after that mattresses were rolled out the largish kids room with a bed sofa and chaise transformed into a dormitory of sorts. I introduced my current favourite game Yahtzee to the group and as expected it did not take time for the gang to get addicted. The four nights we stayed with the Agrawals made us bored with endless entertainment and gala. There was always a pair or pairs of hands that would stretch towards us to take away our plates, glasses etc. We quickly learnt that if you wanted to eat three pooris, say no more after your first. The food was rich- actually rich is an understatement. This was hospitality par excellence. I had an eerie feeling some people could even read my mind in terms of demands. Tusha, Akansha’s younger sister who looked after their two kid sisters would ask me, “Do you need a towel... a nightie?”
The next day morning turned into afternoon quicker than before and at dusk we ventured out to explore Chitrakoot. As soon as you move out of Akansha’s house –just past the sabzi mandi you see an imposing building with a battlemented wall. It appears late 18th century and I was not surprised to see the Police Station sign board outside. It is appalling how the historic and heritage buildings in India have been damaged after Indian government turned them into public offices or institutions. These buildings have been used and abused with paan stains, thoughtless alterations, and their thick lime walls now serve as formidable piss stations. The story is the same everywhere; there is no reason to believe Chitrakoot, one of India’s 150 poorest districts to be an exception.
Despite a prominent reference in the sacred geography mentioned in the Ramayana, the most widely read literature by the Hindus today; Chitrakoot is not big on the pilgrimage map. I often wonder why some centres of pilgrimage become more popular than the others. Living in Banaras, I find that the religiosity of the city increased to popularity only after the 17th century. Though Banaras finds ancient references and archaeological data, to support claim to antiquity, it was recognized as a pilgrimage by the masses much later. Most of early Banaras was a jungle where holy men, the sadhus wandered and meditated. Dedicated pilgrims would visit Banaras but the land of Shiva was not on every pilgrims list till the British-built support system made it easier for them to. It was a heady marriage of commerce and religion that accounts for Banaras’ richer legacy in the 19th century. Most Hindu kings worth anything built imposing palaces and other buildings on the river side, aristocrats built beautiful havelis inside the city, the richer aristocrats made grander mansions outside of the city in today’s Mehmoorganj. Arts and culture patronized by these people flourished. It would not be preposterous to say that though with a varying degree of expenditure every Banarasi enjoyed countless local festivals and festive occasions.
Chitrakoot is a tirtha---- despite blaring loud-speakers and modern construction around moss-covered Mandakani, unlike other centres of pilgrimage, Chitrakoot preserves a feel of sacred geography.
It is hard to imagine thick jungles where Ram and Lakshman went in search of the golden deer in the present-day ochre-coloured land but the modern Arogaya Dham built in the Madhya Pradesh part of Chitrakoot. Arogya Dham is a resort like sanatorium in a beautiful campus. Surprising was to see a small shrine dedicated to JRD Tata. Now what is Mr. Tata’s image doing in a small Hindu pilgrimage centre. It was more surprising to discover that JRD Tata Foundation for Research in Yoga, Naturopathy and Ayurvedic Sciences has funded the entire programme.
We returned to the main dham area where the river divides the two states U.P and Madhya Pradesh. A boat ride at Chitrakoot can in no way compare the grand panoramic view that a boat ride in Banaras provides but the brightly-dressed cushion-covered boats with side pillows gave them a distinct character. What added to the royal touch were small little white rabbits that one could pet while riding.
The setting was perfect and reminded me of a short story I read some time ago about an old Banarasi festival, Burhva Mangal (lit. the old Tuesday) celebrated on a Tuesday right after Holi. Boats (locally called Bajras) of big nobles and aristocrats were dressed and decorated and they would sail on the Ganges till wee hours in the morning. Accompanying the princes and nobles would be their friends enjoying live music on board.
Just as we were sailing on the muck covered Mandakini power went out in the Uttar Pradesh side of Chitrakoot and the Madhya Pradesh side remained lit. For the few minutes that we were in this light dark zone- I had an answer to a question that has long troubled me- How and why is India still a single unit despite massive diversities?
Monday, March 24, 2008
Mourning and masti
I have wondered if Banaras is the only place in India that has a tireless energy to celebrate every festival on the Hindu calendar, and those of every other religion as well. A day after Diwali on the Gujarati New Year's day, I bought a calendar from the famous Kachori Gali of Banaras. This calendar, printed in the lane nearby, featured countless festivals and auspicious days, a few of which I bet are entirely unheard of in the north (Yet this is the north, isn't it?). Ever since I moved into the city (in the holiest month of Kartik), every day is a celebration. It started with Diwali, Naag Nathaiya, Annakut, Govardhan Puja, Ahoi , Ganesh Chaturthi, Dev Dipawali, Kartik Purnima, Dattatreya Jayanti, Ambedkar Jayanti. These kartik festivals were followed by Falgun and Chaitra festivals of Basant Panchami, Mauni Amavasya, Holi, Burhva Mangal, Gulab bari, Sankat Mochan Festival, Tulsi Ghat festival, Mahavir Jatanti, Shitala Ashtami, Mauni and Aamla Ekadashi. There also auspicious events and festivities related to wish-fulfillment like Manauti when you garland the river breadth-wise after your wish has been fulfilled and the 'Burfi and Gulab Jamun offering' day to the Ganga.
Mauharram in Banaras is quite unlike anywhere else. I had before seen processions with colourful Tazias and the emblems of the Shia faith near Lodi Colony in Delhi. But watching a group of Shiite mourners (young men) every night for a month in a state of near frenzy beat their chests to a highly charged pitch was a different experience. On the night before Moharram the previously 'missing-in-action' older Muslim men and women of the neighbourhood came out of their homes to get a glimpse of the 'dulha' as they all called him. On the eve of Ashura, I decided to wade through a large crowd of men and women to see what they were there to see. A man clearly not in his true senses was being escorted (read pulled in all directions) by young men. He was wearing white trousers and a button-down shirt that revealed his sweaty chest. The crowd then proceeded to a room with an ante-chamber where I stood with my bunch of burqa clad women. At this rather modest looking house, the dulha pays his respect to an enshrined horse-shoe that is believed to be of the horse from Karbala. After this quick but intense ceremony, the dulha and his gang of boys get ready for the action involving jumping on coal, on fire. The procession started from Shivala and then went around almost every neighbourhood in Banaras. The procession would end sometime in the morning and when a next set of mourners replaces them. During Moharram several canopied daises mushroom in the neighbourhoods like Madan Pura, Shivala in south Banaras . Old and young men gather together in the evening for an event of sorts. Stories, poems and a recital called the soz is performed all in remembrance of the martyrdom that took place in 7th century at Karbala. These anjumans outside of the chief Muslim mohallas are set up on the main road to Dashashwamedh. They may block the road for the passerby but the members of the anjuman are not unwelcoming to those interested in sharing the experience. Interestingly many more police men are seen during this time of the year than other. The policemen all sit outside a chai stall and gossip with their colleagues or with other customers at the chaiwala's. The nights pass peacefully but it is early in the morning that Mrs. Yadav's son plays 'Hare Ram Hare Ram' that I loose my sleep.
Missed this year: Shehnai players of the Khan family with the procession, the burial of the tazias we saw on display.
Banaras's mohallas and communities trying to compete with each other to celebrate better is a major reason for such exuberance. These sporting events between neighbourhoods, temples, communities and priests has helped in retaining the banarasi masti. And how else does one continue to have masti in a life without potable drinking water, medical facilities, electricity, roads, proper governance- they close their eyes and enjoy.
Mauharram in Banaras is quite unlike anywhere else. I had before seen processions with colourful Tazias and the emblems of the Shia faith near Lodi Colony in Delhi. But watching a group of Shiite mourners (young men) every night for a month in a state of near frenzy beat their chests to a highly charged pitch was a different experience. On the night before Moharram the previously 'missing-in-action' older Muslim men and women of the neighbourhood came out of their homes to get a glimpse of the 'dulha' as they all called him. On the eve of Ashura, I decided to wade through a large crowd of men and women to see what they were there to see. A man clearly not in his true senses was being escorted (read pulled in all directions) by young men. He was wearing white trousers and a button-down shirt that revealed his sweaty chest. The crowd then proceeded to a room with an ante-chamber where I stood with my bunch of burqa clad women. At this rather modest looking house, the dulha pays his respect to an enshrined horse-shoe that is believed to be of the horse from Karbala. After this quick but intense ceremony, the dulha and his gang of boys get ready for the action involving jumping on coal, on fire. The procession started from Shivala and then went around almost every neighbourhood in Banaras. The procession would end sometime in the morning and when a next set of mourners replaces them. During Moharram several canopied daises mushroom in the neighbourhoods like Madan Pura, Shivala in south Banaras . Old and young men gather together in the evening for an event of sorts. Stories, poems and a recital called the soz is performed all in remembrance of the martyrdom that took place in 7th century at Karbala. These anjumans outside of the chief Muslim mohallas are set up on the main road to Dashashwamedh. They may block the road for the passerby but the members of the anjuman are not unwelcoming to those interested in sharing the experience. Interestingly many more police men are seen during this time of the year than other. The policemen all sit outside a chai stall and gossip with their colleagues or with other customers at the chaiwala's. The nights pass peacefully but it is early in the morning that Mrs. Yadav's son plays 'Hare Ram Hare Ram' that I loose my sleep.
Missed this year: Shehnai players of the Khan family with the procession, the burial of the tazias we saw on display.
Banaras's mohallas and communities trying to compete with each other to celebrate better is a major reason for such exuberance. These sporting events between neighbourhoods, temples, communities and priests has helped in retaining the banarasi masti. And how else does one continue to have masti in a life without potable drinking water, medical facilities, electricity, roads, proper governance- they close their eyes and enjoy.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
29th Birthday
I must confess that I was somewhat surprised not to receive mid-night calls from the expected callers on my 29th birthday. Instead I received wish-texts from new friends who have in a short span of time secured a strong place in my heart. Jan Seibold, newly weds Kaizad and Monaz Todywalla and surprisingly Claudio Rubini (with whom I share my birthday) sent sweet wishes. Morning of the 20th was not perfect birthday morning.... Morning celebrations involved a two-minute bath, putting away my gorgeous custard-yellow saree in favour of worn-out travelling clothes and packed my bag in a jiffy. Shanti found us an auto rickshaw to take us to Hemang and Akansha Agrawal who were waiting for us at their Naati Imli residence. Nati Imli literally meaning 'short tamarind' is best known for Bharat Milap performance of Ramlila- an emotional episode in Ramayana when the two estranged brothers Rama and Bharat meet. Our English speaking, uber-fashionable (translates to sketchy) auto driver took us through the longest possible route to an area that he called Nati Imli. A smooth ride to Allahabad was achieved in no time. There was hardly anytime when I felt we were in countryside that the map shows between Varanasi and Allahabad. There were always some buildings or ugly under-construction projects by the highway to disqualify the feel of a country side.
I was excited about my first ever visit to Allahabad- a city I associate with my adolescence. Allahabad is the nanihal of a certain somebody. Memories of references to El Chico's, Civil Lines, Elgin Road, Atiq Ahmed and Boys High came instantly. It was a sheer surprise to be treated at El Chico's on my birthday. The restaurant gives you a good retro feel. I enjoyed the afternoon in company of friends, eating good old Jalfrezi with Tandori roti though recovering nostalgia and memories of me eating out with my family took a little effort.
Allahbad is by no means what I had imagined. The British built Civil Lines appears run-down. British built grand public offices around Civil Lines. Grand old trees shield broad roads that cut each other at right angles. The buildings though severe follow an architectural idiom. that gives a wonderful homogeneity. The picture is incomplete until I add a touch of reality here- the grand buildings have been painted over and over generous orangy paan stains, the massive trunks of the old trees have been painted ( whosoever started that trend in India ), particularly sad was to see garbage piles in a church compound, publicity banners of Hotel Kanha Shyam the proud preservers of a narrow strip of green around All Saints overtaking the church boundary. The truth is that Allahabad is an apology in the name of a famed city for modern learning and established university. It is a classic example of the affairs of the state. Encroached spaces, broken roads, a tired land supporting ugly new buildings, littered roads, deafening honking and generators, open drains---characteristics of any city in India characterize Allahabad too. Wonder if democracy worked for India.
By the afternoon of 20th, I was considering writing an entry in my blog on "Why we need British back in India. " An article in a magazine I can not remember on V. Kalyanam, Gandhi ji's secretary came to mind- We are being ruled by goondas- Gandhi ji did not fight the British for today.
I was excited about my first ever visit to Allahabad- a city I associate with my adolescence. Allahabad is the nanihal of a certain somebody. Memories of references to El Chico's, Civil Lines, Elgin Road, Atiq Ahmed and Boys High came instantly. It was a sheer surprise to be treated at El Chico's on my birthday. The restaurant gives you a good retro feel. I enjoyed the afternoon in company of friends, eating good old Jalfrezi with Tandori roti though recovering nostalgia and memories of me eating out with my family took a little effort.
Allahbad is by no means what I had imagined. The British built Civil Lines appears run-down. British built grand public offices around Civil Lines. Grand old trees shield broad roads that cut each other at right angles. The buildings though severe follow an architectural idiom. that gives a wonderful homogeneity. The picture is incomplete until I add a touch of reality here- the grand buildings have been painted over and over generous orangy paan stains, the massive trunks of the old trees have been painted ( whosoever started that trend in India ), particularly sad was to see garbage piles in a church compound, publicity banners of Hotel Kanha Shyam the proud preservers of a narrow strip of green around All Saints overtaking the church boundary. The truth is that Allahabad is an apology in the name of a famed city for modern learning and established university. It is a classic example of the affairs of the state. Encroached spaces, broken roads, a tired land supporting ugly new buildings, littered roads, deafening honking and generators, open drains---characteristics of any city in India characterize Allahabad too. Wonder if democracy worked for India.
By the afternoon of 20th, I was considering writing an entry in my blog on "Why we need British back in India. " An article in a magazine I can not remember on V. Kalyanam, Gandhi ji's secretary came to mind- We are being ruled by goondas- Gandhi ji did not fight the British for today.
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