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 an even more famous film director. Dimpy is THE
GENERAL. She rules with a certain style that not
everyone can take. 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. Being
Punjabi, she has the moves and spirit of the dance. 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.
