Travel
Report from india
My intention when I left New York was to write about my experiences
every few days. I had no idea the pace we would be keeping and the
utter exhaustion that I would feel at the end of each day. Being
constantly interrupted by servants, conversations, and continuous
activity has made it almost impossible for me to write even on the
computer. So bear with this disjointed account of our trip until now.
[I am trying to finish this installment before rushing off to meet Situ
(Melissa’s sister-in-law) at a club for lunch. I read in Mumbai News
that Oprah is staying in Jor Bagh where Situ lives. Last time Melissa
was in Delhi having lunch there she found herself standing next to Mrs.
Clinton. Situ is an opera singer/her late husband a conductor
from Berlin.]
Our stop in New York was too short but filled with
memories of the sixties. We stayed in Chelsea on 8th
Street at the Chelsea Star Hotel, a small boutique hotel. The hotel has
theme rooms, walls/ceilings painted with images from Salvador Dali,
Picasso, movies like the King &I, Madame Butterfly, stars like
Esther Williams, Madonna, Marilyn Monroe, etc. I am sure some of
you remember the Chelsea Hotel or at least know of the wild times, of
rock & rollers, hippies, beat poets and writers who lived there. To
continue the theme of the sixties, we had dinner with Melissa’s friend
Eva, a woman in her late fifties who looks like the young Joni
Mitchell. Melissa met her in 2000 in Rishikesh. She is from Poland but
has lived in New York for twenty years taking care of visiting
celebrities’ needs. She is quite a character. The evening of meeting
really amazing, open, sweet people has been repeated many times over.
Two planes and twenty two hours later we arrived in
Mumbai. I was not as tired as I thought I would be. Thank God it was an
easy trip. Going through Customs was not without a hitch. The airline
lost two bags, but a little money here and there speeded things along.
Before I left everyone who has been to India told me, “Don’t be
surprised if you feel disoriented for the first week as you go through
culture shock.” This was definitely not the case. I felt at home
immediately though Mumbai is dirtier than any city I have ever seen.
The traffic is like Indie 500 on acid. There are NO rules, few traffic
lights, the roads are filled with moto-rickshaws, bicycles, cars,
buses, goats, trucks, horses, dogs, begging children, hoards of people,
oh, and cows. The animals seem to belong to no one. They just roam
around. There are shacks with women washing their clothes below
billboards announcing the latest Bollywood hit. Skyscrapers standing
tall and new beside buildings that look as if they may crumble and
collapse when you go by. The extremes and contradictions of Indian life
glare with particular poignancy every step, each square inch a buzzing
chaos. I can see that people either love it or hate with no in between.
In Mumbai
we stayed with Melissa's in-laws,
Dimpy (Melissa’s late husband’s sister) & Dimpy’s husband
Jeet. Jeet is a well known television director and son of a
matinee idol. Dimpy is THE GENERAL. Her strategies are planned quickly
with unerring detail. Thanks to her our rather piecemeal travel plans
were whipped into shape in a matter of days, travel arrangements and
itinerary in hand no problem. Landing at their place was almost as
surprising as cows in the road. They live in Juhu Beach, a posh
area in South Mumbai. Again Indian contradictions glaring, the road to
their building is dusty, in ill-repair, the buildings run down. It does
not at all appear to be an affluent neighborhood. Then you go through
the gate to find doormen, marble floors, and a parking lot full of new
cars. Their flat is on the third floor overlooking Juhu Beach. The
weather is, of course, like Hawaii, conducive to open air living. The
entire house has patio-sized windows in every room. They are opened
from dawn to dusk, giving you a continuous view of the Indian
Ocean. Quite an experience in itself. One can imagine the spices of
India heading out under sail. As it is the bay is filled with
colorful little fishing boats all day. The beach below is a constant
fair in motion. Colors of saris and smoke swirl without break night and
day. People, dogs, horses, carousels, vendors of every type,
lovers kissing discreetly, their backs against an ancient wall
embedded with tiles of Shiva, Lakshmi, Hanuman, Krishna and Ganesha.
Jeet told me that until recently, when elephants were banned from the
streets after some tragic accident involving a taxi, you could see them
and camels on the beach also.
The first morning I awoke at dawn (ok, I can hear
the laughter) and planted myself at the banister watching the sun rise.
Very quickly I was torn from my reverie by drums and bells. I thought
it was awfully early and certainly inconsiderate for someone to have
their radio turned up so loud. When the music started getting louder,
and I realized that it was
Live music. Priests paraded down the street, carrying a
large statue of Lord Ganesha garlanded with marigolds, chanting over a
loudspeaker. They went out to the ocean and cast the garlands in
the surf.
Even though the caste system was abolished,
clearly people’s station in society is acknowledged by fairly rigid
customs. Servants here are barely spoken to except for “orders” and
requests. It all seems so British. Dimpy has six servants, two women
and four men, plus a driver. I knew that personal space was a luxury
and perhaps not even desired in India; however, I was not prepared for
the constant intrusion of Indian servants. They work seven days a week.
They live in the house. They are called by bell. They do everything
from cooking & cleaning to moving a chair for you that is only a
few feet away. Anything I needed that was not in the house was
instantly sent out for and in my hands in a matter of minutes.
Then…the food schedule. My God. First, tea and biscuits when you
get up followed by breakfast a few hours later. Lunch is on the table
by one or two. Tea is again ready with a snack around five. Dinner is
served about 9:30-10. The biggest problem is that the food is exquisite
and one cannot say no thank you. Besides being rude, it simply does not
work, the dish is served anyway.
We arrived just in time for Dimpy’s best friend’s
daughter’s wedding. A five day extravaganza. Dimpy wears fabulous
designer Indian suits and saris and quickly began planning each event’s
wardrobe complete with gold and diamond jewelry for us all including
her fourteen year old daughter Sohani. Luckily, I fit in Dimpy’s
clothes and Melissa fit into Sohani’s clothes. We attended the Puja
(Hindu blessing) ceremony first. Next was the Sangeet where all the
women got mehindi, intricate henna decorations on our hands. The henna
takes hours to dry and basically immobilizes the use of your hands
until then. So people fed us the foods that were constantly being
offered every few minutes. Then dancing. The younger people had
all the Bollywood dancing moves down perfect. People in couples and
singles got on the stage while the crowd was watching. I have to say I
was horrified, but tried to be graceful about hopping up on the stage
to attempt some kind of “Banghra”, Punjabi dance style. Dimpy came to
my rescue by dancing with me, as she should have since she is the one
who dragged me by hand from the back of the room. She is Banghra. . I
think I finally have the basics down. I never saw anyone laughing but
surely they must have! I have to say though that I was taken in
completely by everyone as part of the family. Very generous, kind
people.
I really connected particularly with two men from
Amritsar in Northern India. Arun is in the Amritsar Rotary Club and
heads a project helping children and teens’. He kept saying that
Melissa and I were his sisters with bright spiritual fervor. He
insisted that we come to Amritsar to visit, so we are. He, his two
brothers, his wife, in-laws, children and grandchildren live in three
houses in a compound. I have no doubt the hospitality will be grand.
All the people at these wedding events were close friends or family.
Some had traveled from as far as London. They were movie producers,
movie stars, hotel moguls, textile factory owners, etc. Very wealthy,
well connected. A wild place to start my trip in such a poor country. I
enjoyed every minute. The actual wedding took place at the club that
Dimpy & Jeet belong to. The decorations were just exquisite. The
flowers alone could have filled a gymnasium. The food was simply
unbelievable. The bride’s mother’s brother ties dangling gold charms
from each family member on her wrists as blessing from the family for
her to go to her new family. The Sangeet singing and teasing as the
women call out to each family member to get up and dance was really
rousing. There is a word for each family relation. Mother of the bride,
Father of the groom, Mother’s brother, Father’s father, Uncle’s wife,
and so on. Of course, the bride circles behind the groom seven times
around the fire where the priest is making offerings of ghee which
makes the fire burn. I won’t go into all the details of the ceremony
but it was fascinating.
The wedding being half over, Melissa and I slipped away
to be tourists. We headed off to Elephanta Island through the Gateway
of India and Taj Mahal Palace Hotel. Seeing the Gateway of India from
the boat was almost overwhelming as visions of the historical black
& white photographs of the structure, which commemorates the visit
of King George V and Queen Victoria in 1911, mixed with that present
moment of colorful, sunlight filled images in the embrace of salty
trade winds from Africa.
Disembarking, we were immediately approached by one of
the village guides who stayed with us all day long. Chandrakant was a
delightful companion, so sincere, cheerful, knowledgeable and
kind. He was born on this tiny island. Ice is shipped in everyday
for the tourists as there is no electricity; the water is collected
from the rain running down the mountain into the caves. Elephanta has
no doctor and no medical services. The only livelihood is tourism.
Elephanta is known for the temple caves which were carved in the eighth
century, the most famous being the massive Trimurti Shiva , a three
faced bust dominating the first cave temple. My favorite of the
statues is the Ardhanarishvara, half male and half female. I am
reminded of HBO’s “Carnival” with the half man/half woman carnival
performer and the myriad ways that the underlying truths of the
universe appear in each culture. The stone seemed to whisper secrets
told by centuries of ritual. One could imagine the statues simply
dancing off the walls into these great open air halls.
Let’s see can I remember what happened next. The wedding
ended. Then we went by train overnight to Aurangabad. This town is
famous for Ellora and Ajanta caves. Ellora consists of 34 Buddhist,
Hindu, and Jain caves filled with huge sculptures. Ajanta is on a
grander scale perched high above a horse-shoe bend in the Waghora
River. Ajanta has 28 Buddhist and Hindu caves. These caves are better
known for their murals. The caves are spread out along the shear
vertical cliff walls and require going up and down steps and doorways
to different levels in the mountain. Besides being an arduous climb, it
is hot as hell in the afternoon sun. We decided to save our energy for
enjoying the caves rather than the journey and rented divans. These
were chairs lashed to two poles with four small men carrying us on
their shoulders. I felt like I was riding an elephant. You bobbed up
and down, side to side in a slow gallop. Think Charlie Chaplin. In the
video Melissa made you can see me leaning heavily to the side next to
the mountain as the men run up and down steep steps. Every cave was
more amazing than the last. I cannot even begin to describe the
profound scope of this achievement. I will say it was stunning and
worth the train ride and wild four hour ride with two young Muslim
guides. The most noteworthy of many breathtaking experiences was when
the driver pulled out to pass a cow-pulled cart at the same time that a
bus pulled out to pass two motorcycles coming in the opposite
direction. No problem. They both kept to their plan and passed each
other driving on the wrong side of the road. It actually made a lot of
sense at the time. Anyway, it’s really best not to watch the driving
and focus on developing faith and a strong belief in your destiny.
Update later….that was Jan 28- Feb 5. Tales
of Mumbai still has 4 days of adventure.
15 Feb 2007
Continuing with part two from Benares …
I am not sure if I can go back to all that
happened in Mumbai. I am now in Benares or Varanasi as it is now called
but to the devout it is Kashi, city of light. And that it is. I am
filled, no enveloped in Benares. There is no part that is not Benares.
This is the oldest city in the world. Truly one steps into a place all
to itself.
To move back into Mumbai’s adventure, let me start where
we left off, on the road hurling through one minefield after another.
The horn is one’s only hope of navigating the certainty of disaster.
One honks to say, “I am behind you, move on or be run over”; one honks
to say, “I am beside you, don’t pull over”; one honks to say,
“don’t even try it, I will ram you new SUV”; one honks to say, “Get out
of my way, I WILL run you down”; one honks and honks and honks.
Bicyclists, pedestrians, rickshaw drivers, oxen-drawn cart drivers,
people pushing carts, taxis, even cows understand this language and
obey out of self-preservation. There is no higher law than this
cacophony of directives. Perhaps some version of the music of the
spheres. At least the music of chaos.
Aurangabad was my first taste of rural India. The
trip was too short, but I got a sense of what life must be like if
everything you wanted was laid out before you in one village. Each
person’s role prescribed each day’s duties apparent, each passage
through life known and accepted. There was a feeling of connectedness.
There seemed to be a flow that included all the parts. On our way back
to Aurangabad from Ajanta, it was dusk, then night. We passed through
several villages. There were very few lights though the streets were as
busy as any well-lighted city. Commerce and entertainment poured open
into the dusty night air. We had to drive very slowly through these
little burrows. I rolled down my window even though the dust was so
thick your breath looked like breath on a winter’s night. Passing
through the crowds at arms length was fascinating. The textures of hand
loomed cloth and wooden carts, the smells of incense, chai and dung,
the candlelight and small florescent bulbs. Briefly staring into the
faces of old women and young boys. Oh, horns….that cacophony of horns.
And always, the cows and goats positioned in between past and present.
Oddly not out of place in the middle of the road.
I neglected to report that my train ride TO
Aurangabad was my introduction to Indian toilets. Decidedly, I prefer
Western toilets. Our hotel was my introduction to Indian bathrooms.
Decidedly, I prefer Western bathing. For more detail, don’t ask.
Returning to Mumbai, we began winding down for our
next stop, Delhi. A trip to Santa Cruz Bazaar was just the
beginning of the ever present attitude on the streets, “Americans have
money”. You may be surprised at the million ways that have been
devised to get some of it. If you are given information, that help is
worth a few rupees. If you bags have been carried, be ready to haggle
by the bag or weight, not your choice which is more expensive. Oh, the
best haggling I overheard was the discount of having mosquitoes in the
hotel room. At the bazaar it was just over a stain here or there on a
sari. We happened to go to the shopping district on the day the stores
are closed and the streets are opened to the servants who put their
wares on the ground. If you stop for a few seconds or rest your eyes on
an object for more than a moment, you have good as bought it. I was
looking at one sari and three women came at me from all directions,
“madam, buy this, madam, this color, madam”. Hands and colors in
constant motion. The best tout I heard in Aurangabad was “Oh, mommy,
mommy, I am your son, must take care of me”. The guy was at least
twenty. Even our guide laughed at that.
The one diversion to packing was an evening with
Kailash. Kailash is an Indian rock star. Before he became famous, he
was a close friend with Melissa and her in-laws. He is from a small
village outside of Mumbai and his purity is still not stained by money,
fame and travel. We all went to a restaurant called Urban Dhaba. A
Dhaba is a traditional roadside café. The place is an experience not
just a good meal. The décor is truly creative, lamps from
bangles, tables from huge copper drums. The atmosphere much like a
Moroccan bar.
Let’s get to Delhi! The train to Delhi is
overnight. We went A/C second tier. Two seat/beds on either side facing
each other. Our cabin mates were a lovely couple from South
India, Kerala. He was a Naval Officer and she an English teacher. We
had a wonderful time with them. The time passed quickly. We arrived in
Delhi a little disheveled but intact. Meeta and Shruti Lal welcomed us.
They had come in two cars so that the Queen’s luggage could be escorted
with her. Those who know Melissa know what I mean.
Mumbai had been 90 degrees and pleasant. Delhi was
raining and cold. The change was jarring. That was quickly offset by
the beauty of Delhi. I had heard about Delhi being dirty but compared
to Mumbai it was sterling. Of course, again, where the Lals live is
close to the Embassies and where Situ lives is in the Embassy area.
Compared to Mumbai the streets are more like boulevards than bees'
hives and felt much more like Europe than Asia. I still have a week in
Delhi after these excursions, so I will know more after further
explorations.
Guruji’s home is lovely. The building is where he was
born and the building grew up with him. The first floor has a tenant.
The Lals live on the second floor. Guruji’s music studio and a
fantastic guest room with its own private bath are on the third. There
are patios and balconies on either end with a splendid rooftop garden.
For those of you who have had Meeta’s cooking, you know that our meals
were exceptional. I see now though why Meeta felt stretched to give her
cooking classes. She is a director; everything else is done by
servants.
The servant situation here was even more disconcerting.
The maids were not called by name. In fact one young girl was called
five or six times at one point because she did not recognize her name
being called. These girls were maybe fourteen. The scene at Gurji’s was
a zoo. His mother, sister, brother-in-law and niece were arriving
unexpectedly from Rajasthan for their twenty fifth wedding anniversary.
So that brings the total to thirteen people. Wow. All I can say is I
survived. Privacy will never have the same requirements.
The reason we came to Delhi on the day we did was to go
to Kailash’s concert at the French Embassy. We were Kailash’s guests so
we went back to the small hall where the two bands were hanging out. I
was glad because I thought it would be a regular concert; however, it
was really a charity event and the music groups were entertainment
after an expensive dinner and auction. The crowd was International,
wealthy, and totally decked out. Melissa and I were dressed
appropriately with splendid silk Indian designer suites, but not
knowing the type of concert and having come to India ill prepared for
elegant evening events were clad in street shoes with socks. I knew I
should have changed my bold yellow socks to black. Anyway, we both
tried to tuck our feet under the chair covers. I guess it didn’t really
matter. We managed to meet some very interesting people and get dropped
off by the leader of Indian Ocean, a well known rock group. You know I
was never a groupie, so I mention this with a huge chuckle. Melissa ran
into her arch nemesis, Sharon Lowen, who was the only other American
learning Odissi dance in the seventies. Pleasantries were spoken, but
clearly the old rivalry remains. Perhaps the most difficult
passages of middle age is accepting what is and letting go of what
could have been with grace.
More to follow…right now I am listening to Benares on
Shivaratri. Benares is the city of Shiva. Tonight is the holiday to
celebrate the night Shiva and his consort Parvati wed. The town is on
fire. This is a very personal wedding party. Pilgrims from everywhere
have convened to walk the 160 miles from one temple to the next in a
circle thru the town. If they are able to complete the walk, misdeeds
will be forgiven. The chanting, bells, and drums can be heard a great
distance. Our hotel is right on the Ganges and our rooftop is perfect
for watching the procession and revelry from above. The lights on the
river seem to ride just above the water.
Namaste
Marcelina
22 Feb 2007
Writing from Situ’s living room in Delhi
I returned from Benares a few days ago. This is the
first time I have taken to sit down and try to focus on the past week
or so. From the moment I set my foot on Indian soil time has not
existed in a linear or even familiar way. Most of the time I have had
no idea what day it is unless I was told. Even then the next day I
would not know what day it was because it seems one day does not follow
the next. Maybe you know what I mean, I am not sure I do. That
feeling of vertigo may be faint, but like a ghost it haunts me,
unsettling whatever preconceptions I have about “normal” reality. The
layers of consciousness, awareness seem to shift constantly here. One
moment there is a sense of standing on solid ground and the next one is
in quicksand. Just when one is dazzled, one is dazed. I suppose that
feeling would resolve into what the Western mind knows as ordinary
reality with time, but perhaps not. Quite simply "we're not in
Kansas anymore, Dorothy”
Now where did I leave off? I will just begin at the
train station in Delhi boarding to Varanasi. To know India, I think one
must experience travel by train. You recognize immediately that you
need a guide just to navigate the hive you have entered at the station.
Luckily there is such a person readily available: a porter and not so
lucky you will have to haggle about the tip. Sure he said 100 rupees,
but now he says the bags were too heavy and this requires an
adjustment. Actually it is a bargain at any price. The shear numbers of
travelers is staggering. If the noise does not disturb you, the smells
will. These are not your clean, beautiful Metro stations of Paris;
think beyond the worst subway station in New York. The trains are
aging, dusty, oily, strange to the eye. There is hardly any lighting,
but here and there are hints that a more elegant time may have preceded
this current state of decay. People of every description are milling
about. Some in rags, others in silk. There is the family squatting in a
circle around what could be all their earthly possessions waiting
beside a business man maybe from Dubai reading the Washington Post.
There are men sleeping on the filthy floors or ground. All types of
food and drink are being hawked. Every nationality and maybe a few
planets are represented. Of course, being white and female, we are of
particular interest.
Our train was supposed to leave at 9:40 PM. This was to
be our first First Class train ride. We arrived and were led out to a
lonely (in the sense that there were only maybe thirty people standing
around), dark area at the end of one of the platforms. We settled in on
a marble bench to wait. Out of the corner of my eye. I noticed some
motion in the shadow. Squinting against the darkness I saw another form
scurry by. Rats were darting in and out from beneath the bench to
retrieve bits of food that had been left by countless travelers. Not
being upset by rodents, I chuckled and mentioned to Melissa that there
were five or six rats underneath her seat and that she should drop them
some food. In hardly the blink of an eye Melissa had us and our
pile of luggage moving in closer to the heart of our platform. At least
she didn’t shriek. Of course, you may already have guessed that this
did not solve the problem.
Our bench mates were two young women from Taipei. They
had met each other through a travelers’ website. One worked at
Starbucks. Is there any reason to ask if corporations will inherit the
earth? The other worked in a patents firm. We had a terrific time
together waiting four hours to board our train. This was the first
train that was late. Am I too optimistic to believe it will be the
last? We had the end compartment which has only two berths. At last
privacy in this world of people, people, people. Again the compartment
was old but luxurious. Lights, tables, wash basin. We were in heaven.
Eighteen hours later I did not feel the same; however, that marvelous
sunrise photo was taken from our compartment window. Just another
mention of the train system, there are so many classes and types of
reservations that it is hard to understand exactly what you are
reserving. There is also the “tourist quota” which can be a trip saver
if you cannot get the reservations you want. Of course, you will have
to go to a different office (in a different location) to get these
tickets.
Benares was my most anticipated stop. As a photographer,
I knew the images would be fantastic. As a spiritual journeyer, I hoped
that this, the most holy place on Earth for millions of Hindus, would
reawaken yearning for conscious contact with God in a way that
encourages a dedicated practice towards that connection. Benares is
known to the devout as The City of Light. Hindus come to Benares to
die, believing that to do so is to attain instant moksha,
enlightenment. I don’t know about seeking enlightenment, but I went to
be drenched in Light, born again in a manner of speaking. In a city
that has a temple every forty feet or so, one cannot help but become
reacquainted with prayer, reverence, and humility. Hinduism is
colorful, passionate, and captivating. Hindu devotion is intoxicating,
contagious and strong medicine.
Surprisingly, Benares was the first place in my travel
that I can honestly say that I had culture shock. The activity at the
train station stops had parallel some kind of travel back in time. Each
stop teeming with activity that changed from modern to almost medieval,
or at least pre-industrial, life . Benares known now as Varanasi is the
oldest living city in the world. I will not say that is frozen in time
and is like stepping back into another century, for the landscape is
peppered with modernity, neon lights, cell phones, TVs, Internet Cafes.
Yet I experienced the full impact of being in another time, another
world. The train trip of eighteen hours had left me on edge having
hardly slept. My nerve endings were frayed, and I figured out later
that I had been diving into a migraine or flu or perhaps I was being
purified for spiritual epiphany. The drive from the station to the edge
of old town where our hotel was located felt like a rip in the fabric
of time. Everything looked different because the main mode of
transportation is rickshaws not cars. There are definitely no lanes;
the traffic is just a flow of tangled motion. We got to the area of
where cars are not allowed and had to transfer from our van to a
rickshaw. Meanwhile our luggage was traveling along side us atop the
heads of three porters. We then arrived at Old Town where we began by
foot through the allies of Benares to our hotel.
We had waited until the last possible minute to make
hotel reservations, and the process became a test of wills. Everyone
thought they knew the best solution. Finding the right lodging can be a
mystifying experience anyway. This proved to be mystifying but, in the
end, magical. The hotels in the Rough Guide to India and Lonely Planet
were either non-existent, closed, or booked. The situation was
beginning to look hopeless, but I held to my plan. I wanted a good
hotel on the river. Just as I was ready to give up and accept that we
would have to go into town away from the river, a miracle happened. We
got the best hotel on the river!
The Hotel Rashmi is only one year old with a terrific
location, incredible staff, and amazing owners. In the eighteenth and
nineteenth centuries palaces and pavilions were constructed with long
flights of Ghats, or stone steps, leading into the river. A series of a
hundred Ghats create a wide semi-circle around a bend in the great
Ganges River. Every morning pilgrims and residents come for their
morning ritual ablutions and Puja or worship. Every evening aarti, an
elaborate Puja with lights, is performed at several of the Ghats. Thus,
night and day you hear music, bells, and chanting. The power of
devotion fills the air. At the Ghats next to our hotel a spectacular
aarti is performed with great pageantry befitting a coronation. Seven
priests standing on platforms at the edge of the Ganges begin an
elaborate ceremony, incense, candelabra of thirty candles, long
horsetail whisks, conch shell, flowers, holy water from the Ganges.
Each offering swinging in a hypnotic , semi-circular motion , to the
left, to the right, center, a pattern repeated with perfect unison and
stylized precision. Beautiful chanting, Tabla, harmonium are broadcast
like a rock concert while pilgrims (and tourists) step up in a
continuous flow to ring bells which are attached to ropes between tall
poles . Bells beseeching God to hear one’s prayers. Incense and smoke
fills the air from these hundreds of swinging candles. The light and
reflections on the water are stunning. Boats packed with pilgrims and
enchanted tourists crowd around the altar platforms, floating,
suspended in the embrace of reverence. Even the nights we could not go
down to the river, we could hear aarti. We were in the temple of god no
matter where we were. This is the magic of Benares.
Old town’s maze of allies and lanes are barely ten feet
wide. The lanes are lined with shops selling food, pan, stones,
clothing, handicrafts, phones, religious statues and pendants. Tailors
and cobblers work in open stalls along the allies. Temples from two
feet to large buildings are whispering God’s name every thirty feet or
so, becoming the traveler to stop and acknowledge from “whence all
blessing flow” the paths. No matter what religion or even those of no
faith are compelled to answer the call with at least a pause. A moment
filled with the light of candles, incense, flowers, donations, and
color, always the colors.
Cars and rickshaws are forbidden here but motorcycle and
scooters are allowed. They fly by people, cows and goats, honking the
horns, barely missing collisions, brushing your pant legs; the sound of
their horns piercing the peace of silence that seems to elude the
entire sub-continent. I guess I have to go into the hill stations,
Himalayas, and tiny towns for quiet. The other ever present, but more
organic, sound is that of monkeys. Monkeys speaking a language only
they understand except when they fight, which is often. People
instinctively know to move on down the ally as quickly as possible. All
this is taking place on the rooftops and along the walls above your
head.
