Happy New Year!!! Yesterday we took a taxi from Kanchipuram to Mamallapuram (Mahabalipuram). We had been planning on taking the bus, but Mom was not feeling so well so we decided to leave the adventure of our first bus ride in India for another day. Not long after we left our hotel, we passed a shrine to Ganesh. Our taxi driver stopped the car without any warning, jumped out, placed a coin or two in a beggar’s bowl, and paid his respect to Ganesh. He then jumped back in the car and drove off as though nothing had happened. My guess is that New Year had something to do with this unusual behavior. Ganesh is the remover of difficulties and it is advisable to ask his help with beginnings. The taxi driver probably hoped Ganesh would remove the difficulties of the coming year. The rest of the drive was more or less uneventful. There are often designs in chalk in front of doorways. The ones on New Year’s Day were much more complex and colorful than usual.
After we had checked into our hotel and put our luggage up in the room, Dad and I went for a walk on the beach while Patrick and Mom worked in the Internet Café. I was very strange when I realized that I felt out of place because I was wearing traditional Indian clothing. After walking for a bit, I wanted to go for a swim, but I decided against it because I have to hand wash my own We found a nice café owned by a Frenchman called Nautilus, which had meat, french fries, omelets, and, best of all, chocolate crepes on the menu. It was delicious and had a nice atmosphere. After satiating our cravings for western food, we meandered down the street looking at shops. Mamallapuram is definitely a tourist trap. It was really strange for me to see white people in blue jeans and T-shirts again, I have to admit.
At night we went to see two performances-a folk dance and a classical dance (Barata Natyam) performance. One of the classical dancers was particularly excellent. Her facial expressions were clear, but not overdone. One of her dances showed her as Yashoda playing with, and remonstrating, the mischieveious Krishna. The dance ended when she rocked Krishna to sleep. As she creeped off stage, as an exhauseted mother would creep out of the room of her sleeping child, the audience burst into applause. With a concerned facial expression, she rushed back on stage, signalling for the audience to be quite, and desperately rocking the imaginary cradle. It was very well done. She completely captured the essance of any mother with a mischievious. but well-loved, child.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Linda: Kapalishvara Temple, Chennai, from Dec. 28
Kapalishvara Temple - Chennai
From Christian India, we venture forth to Hindu India, traversing the crowded streets on foot to the Kapalishvara Temple. There has been a temple here since at least the 7th century, but the present temple dates from the 16th century built in the Dravidian style of southern India with its rainbow colored gopura and pavilions in front of the temple. Things are so old here, that already I find myself saying, “Oh, 16th century. That’s new.” To get there, we passed the streaming, packed streets of Chennai. As warned, pedestrians are the last on the pecking order of right-of-way on the streets in India. We carefully crossed streets amongst 4-5 lanes of traffic (mind you, this is on a two lane road – small, two lane road), bus, car, taxi, autobus, bullock, bicycle, then us. Sidewalks, in various states of disrepair, are not for walking, it seems. The people walk on the edges of the street, and we learned to walk on the right side, facing traffic (opposite of the US) to avoid the autobus drivers stopping and asking if we need a ride. Everywhere, tiny little shops selling just about everything. The streets are so dirty, despite the efforts of the people to keep the dirt at bay, that it is hard to see past the dirt and into the shops, noting that they contain everything under the sun. As I learned to look more closely, one saw shops selling basic food next to shops selling toilets, next to shops selling cell phones, next to a shrine, next to a shanty home, on and on and on. Each shop has several inhabitants, all curious, watching us go by. And, because it was so warm, we’d forgotten that it was winter – the sun began to set.
With helpful directions from shopkeepers, we left the everyday world of India and entered the temple district. All of a sudden, there was the same little shops with the same dirt on the outside, but inside! Jewels. Gold. Silver. Saris. Shrines. The gold jewelery shimmered in the windows – each piece worth $1000 US. Such incredible craftsmanship. I would have loved to have gone in to peruse such work, but was too embarrassed. Perhaps on our return. Then, the huge 40 meter gopura towers above the eastern entrance. As we came at night, our camera did not photograph it well – still figuring out the details of the camera. The gopura is quite new, built in 1906 and is plastered with vibrant stucco figures – garish next to the finesse and detail of the statues and figures inside the temple. Here was Hindu India at its most vibrant. The temple is a complex of shrines within a wall. In the back, there is a tank, a very large area of water that must have once been surrounded by gardens and used for cleansing and rituals. When one enters the temple, one goes clockwise around the center shrine which is dedicated to Shiva, one of the three central gods of India, Brahma being the creator or the world, Vishnu the sustainer/protector of the world, and Shiva the destroyer (of evil, of impurities). Of course, all come from one Supreme God, but the Hindu sects associate with one of the three aspects of God as personified by Brahma, Vishnu, or Shiva. This is a very simplistic explanation, as each god has various forms, consorts, wives, symbols, children, and incarnations – each of which have their own rites and rituals. It is very complex … very complete. Of all the religions, Hinduism explains metaphysical cosmology in the most detail.
It is nighttime and the people have come to pray. There are smaller shrines surrounding the large one. Some people are quietly sitting, some pray in front of the various shrines, some prostrate themselves full length while circumambulating the main shrine. A puja ceremony takes place in front a larger shrine, dedicated to Shiva’s consort, Paravati. Bells sound, horns call, drums roll, incense abounds, and in the distance, inside the shrine, one sees a many-tiered lamp moving in front of the statue, asking for the blessings of the deity to answer the prayers of the people gathered. People come, happy and intent on their supplications. We were not sure if we could go to the inner sanctum (we could), there was a long line, it was late, and we were very hungry. Enough for one day. It was a blessing to see our first temple at night, in all its intimacy and vibrancy. Here, we were one of the crowd of Hindus – and no one asked to give us a tour (for payment, of course). I think coming on foot helps be more anonymous.
We ate and slept, and in the dawn of the morning, the call for the Islamic prayer is heard through the window. What a wonderful thing – to awake to a call for people to pray, for that to be the first thing you hear, like the church bells in Europe. This, followed by the musical call of the birds – their own opening prayer and a gift. The World in a Day
next to the bt Indian musicians and dancers - all and I dress in saris., an activity more appealing and enjoy
From Christian India, we venture forth to Hindu India, traversing the crowded streets on foot to the Kapalishvara Temple. There has been a temple here since at least the 7th century, but the present temple dates from the 16th century built in the Dravidian style of southern India with its rainbow colored gopura and pavilions in front of the temple. Things are so old here, that already I find myself saying, “Oh, 16th century. That’s new.” To get there, we passed the streaming, packed streets of Chennai. As warned, pedestrians are the last on the pecking order of right-of-way on the streets in India. We carefully crossed streets amongst 4-5 lanes of traffic (mind you, this is on a two lane road – small, two lane road), bus, car, taxi, autobus, bullock, bicycle, then us. Sidewalks, in various states of disrepair, are not for walking, it seems. The people walk on the edges of the street, and we learned to walk on the right side, facing traffic (opposite of the US) to avoid the autobus drivers stopping and asking if we need a ride. Everywhere, tiny little shops selling just about everything. The streets are so dirty, despite the efforts of the people to keep the dirt at bay, that it is hard to see past the dirt and into the shops, noting that they contain everything under the sun. As I learned to look more closely, one saw shops selling basic food next to shops selling toilets, next to shops selling cell phones, next to a shrine, next to a shanty home, on and on and on. Each shop has several inhabitants, all curious, watching us go by. And, because it was so warm, we’d forgotten that it was winter – the sun began to set.
With helpful directions from shopkeepers, we left the everyday world of India and entered the temple district. All of a sudden, there was the same little shops with the same dirt on the outside, but inside! Jewels. Gold. Silver. Saris. Shrines. The gold jewelery shimmered in the windows – each piece worth $1000 US. Such incredible craftsmanship. I would have loved to have gone in to peruse such work, but was too embarrassed. Perhaps on our return. Then, the huge 40 meter gopura towers above the eastern entrance. As we came at night, our camera did not photograph it well – still figuring out the details of the camera. The gopura is quite new, built in 1906 and is plastered with vibrant stucco figures – garish next to the finesse and detail of the statues and figures inside the temple. Here was Hindu India at its most vibrant. The temple is a complex of shrines within a wall. In the back, there is a tank, a very large area of water that must have once been surrounded by gardens and used for cleansing and rituals. When one enters the temple, one goes clockwise around the center shrine which is dedicated to Shiva, one of the three central gods of India, Brahma being the creator or the world, Vishnu the sustainer/protector of the world, and Shiva the destroyer (of evil, of impurities). Of course, all come from one Supreme God, but the Hindu sects associate with one of the three aspects of God as personified by Brahma, Vishnu, or Shiva. This is a very simplistic explanation, as each god has various forms, consorts, wives, symbols, children, and incarnations – each of which have their own rites and rituals. It is very complex … very complete. Of all the religions, Hinduism explains metaphysical cosmology in the most detail.
It is nighttime and the people have come to pray. There are smaller shrines surrounding the large one. Some people are quietly sitting, some pray in front of the various shrines, some prostrate themselves full length while circumambulating the main shrine. A puja ceremony takes place in front a larger shrine, dedicated to Shiva’s consort, Paravati. Bells sound, horns call, drums roll, incense abounds, and in the distance, inside the shrine, one sees a many-tiered lamp moving in front of the statue, asking for the blessings of the deity to answer the prayers of the people gathered. People come, happy and intent on their supplications. We were not sure if we could go to the inner sanctum (we could), there was a long line, it was late, and we were very hungry. Enough for one day. It was a blessing to see our first temple at night, in all its intimacy and vibrancy. Here, we were one of the crowd of Hindus – and no one asked to give us a tour (for payment, of course). I think coming on foot helps be more anonymous.
We ate and slept, and in the dawn of the morning, the call for the Islamic prayer is heard through the window. What a wonderful thing – to awake to a call for people to pray, for that to be the first thing you hear, like the church bells in Europe. This, followed by the musical call of the birds – their own opening prayer and a gift. The World in a Day
next to the bt Indian musicians and dancers - all and I dress in saris., an activity more appealing and enjoy
Linda: Mamallapuram, January 2,3
Linda: Mamallapuram – January 2
Mamallapuram is a seaside resort town on the Bay of Bengal. It has several very old temples from the 8th century AD as well as a dance and music festival. We are planning to stay here for several days, partly to rest, partly to let Patrick work, partly to see the dance and music festival.
We’ve been here a week, completely immersed in Indian culture and seeing only a few Westerners, which has been rather surprising. Today, we checked into a guesthouse. “Don’t need reservations. Plenty of room. Lots of room.” This particular guesthouse was what is sometimes called a “backpackers”. It was absolutely brimming with people that I thought was left behind 30 years ago. Dreadnaughts, afros, tie die, and that slightly glazed look euphemistically called “laid back”. After a week of Indian dress and Indian clothes, I had quite a culture shock! And some women were scandalously dressed – spaghetti straps and baggy pants! To see how a foreigner sees is a rare glimpse, and it was a strange experience to be somewhat on both sides at the same time. At any rate, we managed for a day as it was our room was clean, but the owners were not hospitable and the room was not comfortable. Bucket baths with hot water carried in from outside is not a first choice. Fortunately, we had better luck the next day. Two lovely rooms – for less that our hippie pad.
The musical concerts here have been mixed as far as quality but fascinating as far as content. There are two hour long concerts each night on an open stage, under the stars. The backdrop, which you will see in the photos (still working on that) is one of the rock cut carvings. It is carved into the side of the hill and depicts Arjuna’s penance. The story is part of one of the foundational epics of India, The Mahabharata. The five sons of King Pandu, through no fault of their own, are robbed of their kingdom by their cousin. They try to avoid warfare through compromise, but in the end war is unavoidable. Arjuna, the middle son, goes to the mountains to fast and pray, asking for divine guidance and grace in order to right what was wrong and restore the kingdom to one of balance and goodness. On the background, one can see an emaciated Arjuna, standing on one leg. Shiva is to his left, granting his wish, and he is surrounded by other gods and goddesses who also come to bear witness to the rightness of his pleas. To Arjuna’s right is a Naga, or cobra god that lives in the water. At one time, a natural spring ran down a fissure, covering the Naga with water, thus immersing the statue in its natural element. The figures are incredibly beautiful.
As mentioned, the concerts are in front of this spectacular set of carvings. There have been folk dances from many places around India, with people in their tribal costumes using tribal instruments and dances. The drum has been a significant factor in the tribal dances, as well as horn and singing. The women dancers from Rajasthan were stunningly beautiful with their wide skirts and veils, covered in mirrors that sparkled in the light. Such a vibrant, happy dance. In the dances of Rajasthan, one can clearly see the origins of both Middle Eastern Dance and gypsy dance. Grace, movement, beauty, simplicity of style, strong rhythms.
Today, Eleanor rested, Patrick worked, Matthew was on his own, and I was left to wander the streets of Mamallapuram and ancient temple sites on my own. Of all the sights we’ve seen, this site has reached my heart the most. Instead of being constructed, most of the temples were carved out of the living rock. It had all the elements of the temples we have seen, but each shrine was more isolated. Each had its own world. There must have been 10-15 temples dotting the top of this hill/mountain, including an enormous tank on one side. The photograph only shows an extremely small portion of the tank or pool. 1000 meters? More? Measuring under the open sky is difficult, but it took many minutes to walk along it. The feel of this place was one of utter simplicity and oneness with nature. Despite it being in a city, the area still had a feeling of wildness and reminded me of Cappadocia, Turkey, that vast area of Christian spiritual communities from 1000 years ago. There were steps, cut into the stone, leading onto a rocky perch. One can easily imagine a sage of old, sitting on this perch for decades, content in their inner thought and in the outward beauty. There were a variety of shrines in the area, all unique, and most with spectacular carvings of the various deities on the walls and backs. Even the floors had some simple geometric sculptures. In several places, the carvings were missing. One could still see their outline on the walls, but the statues themselves are probably gracing a museum, far from their home. They must have been truly exceptional. One can see it from what remains, and from the knowledge that the people removing them probably took the best examples.
Besides wandering ancient temples with their air of … I was going to say quiet contemplativeness, but it wasn’t quiet. There was something very vigorous in the lay of the land. It was spread out and active rather than closed in and passive. Both are possibilities.
Mamallapuram is a shopper’s paradise. It is overpriced, but it has good examples of things from all over India. This area is especially know for its stone carvers. Lining the back streets, one can see stone carvers, using electrics saws, it is true, but also the chisel and sanding that one would expect. And, the quality of what they are producing is breathtaking. It is a pleasure to see the old crafts continue. The shopkeepers do keep up a steady invitation to browse, but are not particularly pushy. Striking up a conversation is easy and always interesting. I have yet to explore the beach. Maybe I will, maybe not.
PS: Because of the foreign tourism, restaurants are top notch and I’ve actually let my food guard down a notch and ate fresh fish. And French fries! Back to idly, utthapam, dosai, and South Indian thalli – all of which I like - soon enough. One does have to check the water bottles, though. Several had caps that were already opened – something I had not run across yet. Proprietors will refill water bottles with tap water and sell them to the unwary. Again, my thanks for the information on that particular problem!
Mamallapuram is a seaside resort town on the Bay of Bengal. It has several very old temples from the 8th century AD as well as a dance and music festival. We are planning to stay here for several days, partly to rest, partly to let Patrick work, partly to see the dance and music festival.
We’ve been here a week, completely immersed in Indian culture and seeing only a few Westerners, which has been rather surprising. Today, we checked into a guesthouse. “Don’t need reservations. Plenty of room. Lots of room.” This particular guesthouse was what is sometimes called a “backpackers”. It was absolutely brimming with people that I thought was left behind 30 years ago. Dreadnaughts, afros, tie die, and that slightly glazed look euphemistically called “laid back”. After a week of Indian dress and Indian clothes, I had quite a culture shock! And some women were scandalously dressed – spaghetti straps and baggy pants! To see how a foreigner sees is a rare glimpse, and it was a strange experience to be somewhat on both sides at the same time. At any rate, we managed for a day as it was our room was clean, but the owners were not hospitable and the room was not comfortable. Bucket baths with hot water carried in from outside is not a first choice. Fortunately, we had better luck the next day. Two lovely rooms – for less that our hippie pad.
The musical concerts here have been mixed as far as quality but fascinating as far as content. There are two hour long concerts each night on an open stage, under the stars. The backdrop, which you will see in the photos (still working on that) is one of the rock cut carvings. It is carved into the side of the hill and depicts Arjuna’s penance. The story is part of one of the foundational epics of India, The Mahabharata. The five sons of King Pandu, through no fault of their own, are robbed of their kingdom by their cousin. They try to avoid warfare through compromise, but in the end war is unavoidable. Arjuna, the middle son, goes to the mountains to fast and pray, asking for divine guidance and grace in order to right what was wrong and restore the kingdom to one of balance and goodness. On the background, one can see an emaciated Arjuna, standing on one leg. Shiva is to his left, granting his wish, and he is surrounded by other gods and goddesses who also come to bear witness to the rightness of his pleas. To Arjuna’s right is a Naga, or cobra god that lives in the water. At one time, a natural spring ran down a fissure, covering the Naga with water, thus immersing the statue in its natural element. The figures are incredibly beautiful.
As mentioned, the concerts are in front of this spectacular set of carvings. There have been folk dances from many places around India, with people in their tribal costumes using tribal instruments and dances. The drum has been a significant factor in the tribal dances, as well as horn and singing. The women dancers from Rajasthan were stunningly beautiful with their wide skirts and veils, covered in mirrors that sparkled in the light. Such a vibrant, happy dance. In the dances of Rajasthan, one can clearly see the origins of both Middle Eastern Dance and gypsy dance. Grace, movement, beauty, simplicity of style, strong rhythms.
Today, Eleanor rested, Patrick worked, Matthew was on his own, and I was left to wander the streets of Mamallapuram and ancient temple sites on my own. Of all the sights we’ve seen, this site has reached my heart the most. Instead of being constructed, most of the temples were carved out of the living rock. It had all the elements of the temples we have seen, but each shrine was more isolated. Each had its own world. There must have been 10-15 temples dotting the top of this hill/mountain, including an enormous tank on one side. The photograph only shows an extremely small portion of the tank or pool. 1000 meters? More? Measuring under the open sky is difficult, but it took many minutes to walk along it. The feel of this place was one of utter simplicity and oneness with nature. Despite it being in a city, the area still had a feeling of wildness and reminded me of Cappadocia, Turkey, that vast area of Christian spiritual communities from 1000 years ago. There were steps, cut into the stone, leading onto a rocky perch. One can easily imagine a sage of old, sitting on this perch for decades, content in their inner thought and in the outward beauty. There were a variety of shrines in the area, all unique, and most with spectacular carvings of the various deities on the walls and backs. Even the floors had some simple geometric sculptures. In several places, the carvings were missing. One could still see their outline on the walls, but the statues themselves are probably gracing a museum, far from their home. They must have been truly exceptional. One can see it from what remains, and from the knowledge that the people removing them probably took the best examples.
Besides wandering ancient temples with their air of … I was going to say quiet contemplativeness, but it wasn’t quiet. There was something very vigorous in the lay of the land. It was spread out and active rather than closed in and passive. Both are possibilities.
Mamallapuram is a shopper’s paradise. It is overpriced, but it has good examples of things from all over India. This area is especially know for its stone carvers. Lining the back streets, one can see stone carvers, using electrics saws, it is true, but also the chisel and sanding that one would expect. And, the quality of what they are producing is breathtaking. It is a pleasure to see the old crafts continue. The shopkeepers do keep up a steady invitation to browse, but are not particularly pushy. Striking up a conversation is easy and always interesting. I have yet to explore the beach. Maybe I will, maybe not.
PS: Because of the foreign tourism, restaurants are top notch and I’ve actually let my food guard down a notch and ate fresh fish. And French fries! Back to idly, utthapam, dosai, and South Indian thalli – all of which I like - soon enough. One does have to check the water bottles, though. Several had caps that were already opened – something I had not run across yet. Proprietors will refill water bottles with tap water and sell them to the unwary. Again, my thanks for the information on that particular problem!
Friday, January 2, 2009
MATTHEW
First attempt at posting unaided. January 2 2009. We just shifted hotels - just to a more congenial environment. This place, Mahabalipuram, is a hippie hangout and a tourist trap. After a whole week of eating Indian vegetarian food it was interesting to get some Fish and Chips (French Fries for those of you in the US.) It is great to be able to watch cricket on TV also. So far Linda has done a great job of posting and analyzing our trip. That is probably how things will continue with me chipping in temps en temps.
I found singing American Indian Chants quietly to my self was a powerrful defence against the noise, dirt and chaos of the city streets - it was a reassuring family type feeling.
The taxi ride from Kanchipuram to Mamallapuram was interesting. The driver was the best - nothing passed us and he rarly stopped blowing his horn but I realized that there were several diffent meanings in the horn rhthyms. But he was also very pious so that everytime we went by a temple or some other significant religious phenomenon he would tke his hands from the wheel, clasp them together and bow. At one point he put coin on the dash. A few moments later he stopped at a little temple, leaped from the car, put the coin in the cup of a devotee woman brifly prayed asdescribed above and was back in the car and driving within 30 seconds. He hardly spoke for the whole journey but did let us know that it being New Years Day many of the motorcycle drivers were drinking alcohol - no exactly reassuring but his prayers more that compensated. well I am going to try to get this posted and admire my handiwork. We are all very well and I in particular am looking forward to Ramana's place - Arunachala. Until soon.
I found singing American Indian Chants quietly to my self was a powerrful defence against the noise, dirt and chaos of the city streets - it was a reassuring family type feeling.
The taxi ride from Kanchipuram to Mamallapuram was interesting. The driver was the best - nothing passed us and he rarly stopped blowing his horn but I realized that there were several diffent meanings in the horn rhthyms. But he was also very pious so that everytime we went by a temple or some other significant religious phenomenon he would tke his hands from the wheel, clasp them together and bow. At one point he put coin on the dash. A few moments later he stopped at a little temple, leaped from the car, put the coin in the cup of a devotee woman brifly prayed asdescribed above and was back in the car and driving within 30 seconds. He hardly spoke for the whole journey but did let us know that it being New Years Day many of the motorcycle drivers were drinking alcohol - no exactly reassuring but his prayers more that compensated. well I am going to try to get this posted and admire my handiwork. We are all very well and I in particular am looking forward to Ramana's place - Arunachala. Until soon.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
12-31-08
That’s it, I’m moving to India. Today was a rest day and, after a slow morning, Mom, Patrick, and I headed for the sari shops. Patrick, it turns out, has excellent taste in Saris. We took our first auto-rickshaw, which was very bumpy – so bumpy in fact that I had a touch of asthma. The streets of Kanchi are quite different from those of Chennai. They are generally smaller. There are many more animals. In addition to dogs and cats, there are also numerous cows, goats, and even the odd horse-drawn cart. The sides of the roads are covered in posters, advertising so many various shops and encouraging the purchase of so many various items that it is difficult to know where to focus. I was very glad the rickshaw diver knew where he was going, because I would never have picked the sign of our desired silk shop out of the hundreds in view.
Buying a silk sari is an experience that no one should forego. We must have viewed well over a hundred saris, of different quality, color, price, pattern, and material – all had silk, but some were mixtures of silk and some other type of material; the amount of silk decided the price. They began by asking what price-range we were looking at, to which we replied that 1500-2500 rupees (~$30-50) would be best. They acknowledged this, but insisted on beginning by presenting us with their masterpiece. It was a deep blue, pure silk sari, and it was stunning. The tail, the last part of the sari which drapes over the shoulder and is in clear view, depicted each of the 108 poses of Shiva dancing Barata Natyam. Once we were truly ready to begin, they asked which color I would like to look at; I asked for green. They then paraded a series of saris in front of me, light green, dark green, green with a red border, orange saris with a green trim, saris with intricate embroidery, saris that changed color in the light. We selected a few, as in about fifteen, for the second round.
Sometime in the middle of our sari viewing session, we were joined by the man who weaves the saris. Tea and coffee was ordered and we talked for at least 45 minutes. He was very interesting – intelligent, knowledgeable, and humble, but eager to pass on what he knew to those who were interested, namely us. We discussed many thing – the Ramayana, dharma, the insignificance of any individual, the role of the Brahmin in a traditional Hindu society, his education at Amherst, the usefulness and lack thereof of an American degree in Business Management in India, the structure of family life when he was a child and ho it has changed, etc. He pointed out that dharma, any good or correct action, changes through time. He provided an example in marriage. In the Ramayana, King Dasharatha, Rama’s father, had over 5,000 wives. Rama, the incarnation of the god Vishnu, had only one wife, demonstrating that the dharma of marriage in his time was to unite one man with one woman. However, in the Mahabharatha, things have changed. The Pandavas, the five virtuous sons of Pandu, are all married to the same woman, Draupadi while Krishna, another incarnation of Vishnu, is the husband of quite a number of women. The sari-weaver, whose name I never discovered, explained that Krishna’s time was a time of war. There had been wars before his life, there were wars during his life, and there were wars after he passed on. His approval of the Pandavas marriage and his own actions demonstrate that dharma in his time accepted any number of men and women in a marriage.
Because dharma is ever-changing, the role of a Brahmin was to decide what dharma is in a given situation. They would roam from village to village, arriving in the morning, eating, and then passing judgment on whoever wanted to present their dilemmas. No Brahmin would stay in one place because they could then become influenced.
We also discussed his life as a child. His grandfather, the oldest male in the house, was apparently an absolute dictator-his word went, no matter what. He grew up in a house with 17 children and 8 adults, and no one had any personal space. To even want personal space was considered a sin. There was the radio room, the telephone room, the kitchen, the birthing room, the room where women went during that time of the month, etc., but there was not a single bedroom because a bedroom is a place for someone to go to be alone. He said that this structure of family life was common throughout India, but that it is virtually non-existent now. He did not, however, pass judgment on whether he thought this to be a good thing or not, although he did say that if he were a grandfather, he would be more loving and interact with his grandchildren more than his own grandfather.
After much more painful decision making, we eventually picked out six lovely saris, three more than we had intended to buy. I got one that is green and turquoise, one that is orange and green, and another that is dark blue and green. The first two were about 2500 Rs and the third was 800. Mom and I then got measured for sari tops from the same materials as our saris, to be delivered tomorrow morning. I can’t wait. I will have to try on at least one sari tomorrow before we depart for Mamalapuram (a.k.a. Mahabalipuram), which Dad may not be overly enthusiastic about, but I think he will survive. We were then lured into the other room, after having just made a several thousand rupee purchase, to look at ready-made skirts, tunics, etc. I noticed one skirt that was particularly beautiful and pointed it out to Mom, after which I was encouraged to try it on for size. I was quite surprised when a girl, probably a few years younger than me, followed me into the changing room and strated undressing me! I suppose it is considered a great honor to have someone undress you, as though they were your servent, but I found it quite disconcerting...
Until Later,
एलानोर - Eleanor
Buying a silk sari is an experience that no one should forego. We must have viewed well over a hundred saris, of different quality, color, price, pattern, and material – all had silk, but some were mixtures of silk and some other type of material; the amount of silk decided the price. They began by asking what price-range we were looking at, to which we replied that 1500-2500 rupees (~$30-50) would be best. They acknowledged this, but insisted on beginning by presenting us with their masterpiece. It was a deep blue, pure silk sari, and it was stunning. The tail, the last part of the sari which drapes over the shoulder and is in clear view, depicted each of the 108 poses of Shiva dancing Barata Natyam. Once we were truly ready to begin, they asked which color I would like to look at; I asked for green. They then paraded a series of saris in front of me, light green, dark green, green with a red border, orange saris with a green trim, saris with intricate embroidery, saris that changed color in the light. We selected a few, as in about fifteen, for the second round.
Sometime in the middle of our sari viewing session, we were joined by the man who weaves the saris. Tea and coffee was ordered and we talked for at least 45 minutes. He was very interesting – intelligent, knowledgeable, and humble, but eager to pass on what he knew to those who were interested, namely us. We discussed many thing – the Ramayana, dharma, the insignificance of any individual, the role of the Brahmin in a traditional Hindu society, his education at Amherst, the usefulness and lack thereof of an American degree in Business Management in India, the structure of family life when he was a child and ho it has changed, etc. He pointed out that dharma, any good or correct action, changes through time. He provided an example in marriage. In the Ramayana, King Dasharatha, Rama’s father, had over 5,000 wives. Rama, the incarnation of the god Vishnu, had only one wife, demonstrating that the dharma of marriage in his time was to unite one man with one woman. However, in the Mahabharatha, things have changed. The Pandavas, the five virtuous sons of Pandu, are all married to the same woman, Draupadi while Krishna, another incarnation of Vishnu, is the husband of quite a number of women. The sari-weaver, whose name I never discovered, explained that Krishna’s time was a time of war. There had been wars before his life, there were wars during his life, and there were wars after he passed on. His approval of the Pandavas marriage and his own actions demonstrate that dharma in his time accepted any number of men and women in a marriage.
Because dharma is ever-changing, the role of a Brahmin was to decide what dharma is in a given situation. They would roam from village to village, arriving in the morning, eating, and then passing judgment on whoever wanted to present their dilemmas. No Brahmin would stay in one place because they could then become influenced.
We also discussed his life as a child. His grandfather, the oldest male in the house, was apparently an absolute dictator-his word went, no matter what. He grew up in a house with 17 children and 8 adults, and no one had any personal space. To even want personal space was considered a sin. There was the radio room, the telephone room, the kitchen, the birthing room, the room where women went during that time of the month, etc., but there was not a single bedroom because a bedroom is a place for someone to go to be alone. He said that this structure of family life was common throughout India, but that it is virtually non-existent now. He did not, however, pass judgment on whether he thought this to be a good thing or not, although he did say that if he were a grandfather, he would be more loving and interact with his grandchildren more than his own grandfather.
After much more painful decision making, we eventually picked out six lovely saris, three more than we had intended to buy. I got one that is green and turquoise, one that is orange and green, and another that is dark blue and green. The first two were about 2500 Rs and the third was 800. Mom and I then got measured for sari tops from the same materials as our saris, to be delivered tomorrow morning. I can’t wait. I will have to try on at least one sari tomorrow before we depart for Mamalapuram (a.k.a. Mahabalipuram), which Dad may not be overly enthusiastic about, but I think he will survive. We were then lured into the other room, after having just made a several thousand rupee purchase, to look at ready-made skirts, tunics, etc. I noticed one skirt that was particularly beautiful and pointed it out to Mom, after which I was encouraged to try it on for size. I was quite surprised when a girl, probably a few years younger than me, followed me into the changing room and strated undressing me! I suppose it is considered a great honor to have someone undress you, as though they were your servent, but I found it quite disconcerting...
Until Later,
एलानोर - Eleanor
Linda: Kanchipuram - The Temple City
Kancipurum – The Temple City
Unfortunately, we had not eaten before going to see the Jagadguru, thinking we’d be there for an hour or two at the most and would then go back to the hotel. Instead, we were in a taxi going on a tour of the various temples of Kanchi! We were not in the best state to appreciate the temples, I must admit. We were tired, thirsty, hungry, and … having difficulty communicating. We were also not quite psychologically prepared for the barrage of possibilities at the temples. Coming with a guide also meant being introduced as a visitor, which opened the door to another tour guide. – something which I have always avoided like the plague. Instead of being able to meander through a museum or temple, one is taken around, talked to, and shuffled quickly from one place to the next. I suspect this is what most tourists want, but I am more of a “savorer” of places rather than the “quick bite”, preferring to spend hours in one area or it is too much, too fast. So, it was the whirlwind tour of temples, each with a guide who wanted payment. We did have a blessing from one of the priests for our family, which was quite beautiful (donation required afterwards). If we were not so overwhelmed, so rushed, so bombarded by different people wanting to help (for a fee), and so hungry I’m sure we would have managed better. As it was, we endured. . I must learn to set my own pace and not be “guided”. Otherwise, I will not see India and I will not be able to fully appreciate her people and ways.
In retrospect, we met some pious and interesting people at the various temples. There was a devotee of Shankara at a museum who was particularly helpful and took great delight in sharing the stories of Shankara, Rama, Krishna, other deities. His presence of duty, acceptance, and happiness was a joy and an inspiration. And the sight of the frail body of Narayana, with his joy in the moment and his attitude of service and helpfulness. Then, the powerful presence of Sharma – he is someone with whom one would wish to spend a long time.
Today – writing and resting … and maybe, if I’m brave, some sari shopping.
The sari shop – which Eleanor has detailed! What a wonderful, human, enterprising, warm, and satisfying experience for all. Everyone was happy. The shopkeeper, who educated as well as entertained us. The help who enjoyed both our interaction with them and with each other. The young women who were very impressed and interested in Patrick, a young man buying a sari for a girlfriend. This was indeed interesting. There was never just looking and bargaining. After showing us a few quality showpieces and determining the price we wanted to pay, five people scurried back and forth displaying a glittering array of sari upon sari. Then, cups of tea, more saris, then an animated and interesting conversation with the shopkeeper, followed by more saris. All were comfortable, all were happy. Then, the final choices, fabric draped over Eleanor and, inevitably, buying more than we planned. Followed by the promise of more tea, more things to look at - and yet, no pressure either. Just a simple joy in showing what they had and a simple acceptance that we were not interested. Then, all is done, everyone prepares the shop for the evening while we visit once more with the proprietor and … enjoy the last cup of tea/coffee. We came back to the hotel very happy and animated. What a joyful way to do business – and this is from someone who will avoid help at a store!
So, success in the shopping department and in negotiating prices with the auto rickshaw drivers! High marks for adjusting to India today.
Unfortunately, we had not eaten before going to see the Jagadguru, thinking we’d be there for an hour or two at the most and would then go back to the hotel. Instead, we were in a taxi going on a tour of the various temples of Kanchi! We were not in the best state to appreciate the temples, I must admit. We were tired, thirsty, hungry, and … having difficulty communicating. We were also not quite psychologically prepared for the barrage of possibilities at the temples. Coming with a guide also meant being introduced as a visitor, which opened the door to another tour guide. – something which I have always avoided like the plague. Instead of being able to meander through a museum or temple, one is taken around, talked to, and shuffled quickly from one place to the next. I suspect this is what most tourists want, but I am more of a “savorer” of places rather than the “quick bite”, preferring to spend hours in one area or it is too much, too fast. So, it was the whirlwind tour of temples, each with a guide who wanted payment. We did have a blessing from one of the priests for our family, which was quite beautiful (donation required afterwards). If we were not so overwhelmed, so rushed, so bombarded by different people wanting to help (for a fee), and so hungry I’m sure we would have managed better. As it was, we endured. . I must learn to set my own pace and not be “guided”. Otherwise, I will not see India and I will not be able to fully appreciate her people and ways.
In retrospect, we met some pious and interesting people at the various temples. There was a devotee of Shankara at a museum who was particularly helpful and took great delight in sharing the stories of Shankara, Rama, Krishna, other deities. His presence of duty, acceptance, and happiness was a joy and an inspiration. And the sight of the frail body of Narayana, with his joy in the moment and his attitude of service and helpfulness. Then, the powerful presence of Sharma – he is someone with whom one would wish to spend a long time.
Today – writing and resting … and maybe, if I’m brave, some sari shopping.
The sari shop – which Eleanor has detailed! What a wonderful, human, enterprising, warm, and satisfying experience for all. Everyone was happy. The shopkeeper, who educated as well as entertained us. The help who enjoyed both our interaction with them and with each other. The young women who were very impressed and interested in Patrick, a young man buying a sari for a girlfriend. This was indeed interesting. There was never just looking and bargaining. After showing us a few quality showpieces and determining the price we wanted to pay, five people scurried back and forth displaying a glittering array of sari upon sari. Then, cups of tea, more saris, then an animated and interesting conversation with the shopkeeper, followed by more saris. All were comfortable, all were happy. Then, the final choices, fabric draped over Eleanor and, inevitably, buying more than we planned. Followed by the promise of more tea, more things to look at - and yet, no pressure either. Just a simple joy in showing what they had and a simple acceptance that we were not interested. Then, all is done, everyone prepares the shop for the evening while we visit once more with the proprietor and … enjoy the last cup of tea/coffee. We came back to the hotel very happy and animated. What a joyful way to do business – and this is from someone who will avoid help at a store!
So, success in the shopping department and in negotiating prices with the auto rickshaw drivers! High marks for adjusting to India today.
Linda: The Jagadguru
The Jagadguru
Today was the day arranged for us to meet the 70th Jagadguru of Kanchipuram. The Jagadguru is the direct successor to the great sage and exponent of Hinduism, Shankaracharya. Shankara was responsible for giving Hinduism much of its intellectual aspect and its devotees are very serious seekers of truth and of piety. We were to meet the Jagadgura between 7:00-7:30 am, bearing gifts of fruit which we were to procure at the fruit stand across the street. Unfortunately, the fruit stand was closed and we were told we could bring it back later. We entered the temple and were told to sit and wait. There was a ceremony going on behind closed curtains. We could hear the chanting, the bells, and drums from behind the curtain, while devotees in the hall were singing and chanting the verses from the Vedas as well. Three times the curtains were opened so the gatherers could see the Jadadguru giving the offerings to Shiva, that their petitions and prayers would be answered. The bearing of the Jagadguru was quite impressive and it was good to be quiet and still. Afterwards, we were taken behind the shrine where the rest of the Mutt, or school, was. Here, there were priests gathered around a fire in two places, chanting Vedas with flowers, food, and offerings. As we rounded the corner, the Jagadguru was standing, giving his blessing to the few people gathered there at that moment. We weren’t sure what to do, and suspect, in hindsight, that we should have gone up to him right away and introduced ourselves. We’d been expecting an
interview, so had assumed we’d be called, but the person with whom we had been in contact was out of town, and, a person to lead us in was not forthcoming. The Jagadguru seemed like he was waiting to meet us, we were waiting to meet him, but somehow, the way of introduction to the interview did not happen. Still, it was wonderful to be in the presence of someone whose life is dedicated to prayer and to helping others. As we sat and waited, we were surrounded by families and couples coming for a blessing as well as the students who studied the Vedas here. The children were all in white sarongs, their hair in a knot on their heads with the sacred thread across their chest. They sat in little groups in the other hallway, reciting and chanting, learning their prayers and their rites. We also saw many beautiful faces, men of great comportment, with a serious, but gentle, and generous countenance. One in particular, Narayana, took us under wing. We thought he was our guide to the interview, but he was just being helpful. He asked us what our plans were, and upon learning that we’d just arrived in Kanchipuram, arranged for a guide and driver to take us to see the temples of Kanchi. He was a simple, good man, very elderly, with a radiant smile. Another priest arranged for us to come back to eat, and when the driver came, we realized our visit had come to an end. Man proposes, God disposes.
Today was the day arranged for us to meet the 70th Jagadguru of Kanchipuram. The Jagadguru is the direct successor to the great sage and exponent of Hinduism, Shankaracharya. Shankara was responsible for giving Hinduism much of its intellectual aspect and its devotees are very serious seekers of truth and of piety. We were to meet the Jagadgura between 7:00-7:30 am, bearing gifts of fruit which we were to procure at the fruit stand across the street. Unfortunately, the fruit stand was closed and we were told we could bring it back later. We entered the temple and were told to sit and wait. There was a ceremony going on behind closed curtains. We could hear the chanting, the bells, and drums from behind the curtain, while devotees in the hall were singing and chanting the verses from the Vedas as well. Three times the curtains were opened so the gatherers could see the Jadadguru giving the offerings to Shiva, that their petitions and prayers would be answered. The bearing of the Jagadguru was quite impressive and it was good to be quiet and still. Afterwards, we were taken behind the shrine where the rest of the Mutt, or school, was. Here, there were priests gathered around a fire in two places, chanting Vedas with flowers, food, and offerings. As we rounded the corner, the Jagadguru was standing, giving his blessing to the few people gathered there at that moment. We weren’t sure what to do, and suspect, in hindsight, that we should have gone up to him right away and introduced ourselves. We’d been expecting an
interview, so had assumed we’d be called, but the person with whom we had been in contact was out of town, and, a person to lead us in was not forthcoming. The Jagadguru seemed like he was waiting to meet us, we were waiting to meet him, but somehow, the way of introduction to the interview did not happen. Still, it was wonderful to be in the presence of someone whose life is dedicated to prayer and to helping others. As we sat and waited, we were surrounded by families and couples coming for a blessing as well as the students who studied the Vedas here. The children were all in white sarongs, their hair in a knot on their heads with the sacred thread across their chest. They sat in little groups in the other hallway, reciting and chanting, learning their prayers and their rites. We also saw many beautiful faces, men of great comportment, with a serious, but gentle, and generous countenance. One in particular, Narayana, took us under wing. We thought he was our guide to the interview, but he was just being helpful. He asked us what our plans were, and upon learning that we’d just arrived in Kanchipuram, arranged for a guide and driver to take us to see the temples of Kanchi. He was a simple, good man, very elderly, with a radiant smile. Another priest arranged for us to come back to eat, and when the driver came, we realized our visit had come to an end. Man proposes, God disposes.
Linda: Music
Music
Today was a day of music, and of learning of the generous quality of the people. Our first concert from 9:15-11:45, a stunning performance of Classical Indian violin. Indian ragas were not a form of music to which I gravitated naturally, but being able to see a concert of this caliber helped to open the veil to its perfection. The play of a simple melody, being enhanced and improvised by a powerful musician, then played back and forth with a second violinist and accentuated by two styles of powerful drumming was absolutely breathtaking. Audiences here are quite different from America. Here, they clap, if they clap at all, just before the piece closes, or, briefly, after a particularly brilliant improvisation. At the close of the piece, the drone plays on, the sound continues, then the next piece begins. Uninterrupted beauty of sound. This was the shortest seeming two and a half hours of concert I have ever attended. It was never boring and was musically subtle, exciting and satisfying in a new way for me. At the end, a profound hush, an intake of breath, the release of satisfied sighs, and the quiet departure of the listeners. No loud applause, no adulations of the performers. The performers were the means and not the end. The music was all.
Later, we saw a vocalist and also some baratya natyam dancers. Again, these were extraordinary performances. One story, from the Ramayana, was when Kaikeya is convinced to ask her husband for two promised boons that would allow her son to be king and Rama, the rightful heir, to be exiled for 14 years. The second was the story of Krishna’s mother and of the birth of Krishan.
Between performances, we strolled (if one can stroll in India) to the Ramakrishna Temple, a new structure with some lovely gardens – quiet in the middle of the city) and were also assisted by an India woman. We were having difficulty finding one of the venues for the concerts (there were about 25 venues, all with performances all day long, mostly free) and asked a woman coming out of, what I thought, was a gated shop. I was very new to India. I asked for directions and she said, just a moment, locked her gate and came out. She personally escorted us to what she thought was the venue – a walk of about 15 minutes – without a second thought. As we walked, I realized this was no ordinary women. She presence, her stance, her regal manner, her kindness all told me of much more. The gated structure was her home. When I complimented the beauty of what I saw, she glowed, and said how she the servants helped make it so. I responded by telling her how good it was to not only have something of beauty, but to be able to give people work as well. It sounds condescending in print, but I meant it sincerely, and she took it as such. She then told us where the President lived and how he was coming before dropping us off at a venue – which was not the right one. She left only when she was sure we were in good hands, who gave us tea and walked us, again personally, to where we needed to go. Walking! Such a wonderful way to meet really interesting people.
Later, after the last concert, as we walked back to the hotel (15 minutes), all of a sudden a flurry of police cars drove by. The President, it seems, had arrived! Streets had been blocked and there must have been 15 or 20 police escort as well as dozens of police along the street. And yet, there we walked – and continued to walk. All were smiling and nodding for us to continue. We walked right by the president’s car – with his family in it. Quite amazing. The next day, as we were walking to get lunch, the cavalcade left – several cars, some with guns discreetly pointing out the windows, down the street.
Today was a day of music, and of learning of the generous quality of the people. Our first concert from 9:15-11:45, a stunning performance of Classical Indian violin. Indian ragas were not a form of music to which I gravitated naturally, but being able to see a concert of this caliber helped to open the veil to its perfection. The play of a simple melody, being enhanced and improvised by a powerful musician, then played back and forth with a second violinist and accentuated by two styles of powerful drumming was absolutely breathtaking. Audiences here are quite different from America. Here, they clap, if they clap at all, just before the piece closes, or, briefly, after a particularly brilliant improvisation. At the close of the piece, the drone plays on, the sound continues, then the next piece begins. Uninterrupted beauty of sound. This was the shortest seeming two and a half hours of concert I have ever attended. It was never boring and was musically subtle, exciting and satisfying in a new way for me. At the end, a profound hush, an intake of breath, the release of satisfied sighs, and the quiet departure of the listeners. No loud applause, no adulations of the performers. The performers were the means and not the end. The music was all.
Later, we saw a vocalist and also some baratya natyam dancers. Again, these were extraordinary performances. One story, from the Ramayana, was when Kaikeya is convinced to ask her husband for two promised boons that would allow her son to be king and Rama, the rightful heir, to be exiled for 14 years. The second was the story of Krishna’s mother and of the birth of Krishan.
Between performances, we strolled (if one can stroll in India) to the Ramakrishna Temple, a new structure with some lovely gardens – quiet in the middle of the city) and were also assisted by an India woman. We were having difficulty finding one of the venues for the concerts (there were about 25 venues, all with performances all day long, mostly free) and asked a woman coming out of, what I thought, was a gated shop. I was very new to India. I asked for directions and she said, just a moment, locked her gate and came out. She personally escorted us to what she thought was the venue – a walk of about 15 minutes – without a second thought. As we walked, I realized this was no ordinary women. She presence, her stance, her regal manner, her kindness all told me of much more. The gated structure was her home. When I complimented the beauty of what I saw, she glowed, and said how she the servants helped make it so. I responded by telling her how good it was to not only have something of beauty, but to be able to give people work as well. It sounds condescending in print, but I meant it sincerely, and she took it as such. She then told us where the President lived and how he was coming before dropping us off at a venue – which was not the right one. She left only when she was sure we were in good hands, who gave us tea and walked us, again personally, to where we needed to go. Walking! Such a wonderful way to meet really interesting people.
Later, after the last concert, as we walked back to the hotel (15 minutes), all of a sudden a flurry of police cars drove by. The President, it seems, had arrived! Streets had been blocked and there must have been 15 or 20 police escort as well as dozens of police along the street. And yet, there we walked – and continued to walk. All were smiling and nodding for us to continue. We walked right by the president’s car – with his family in it. Quite amazing. The next day, as we were walking to get lunch, the cavalcade left – several cars, some with guns discreetly pointing out the windows, down the street.
Linda: The World in a Day
The World in a Day – Day 2
Yesterday, we walked down the main street of Chennai to the Bay of Bengal, a large beach approaches the sea with little fishing dinghies strewn in patches here and there. The beach is remarkably uncrowded and the water cool to the feet. As we walked down the street, I was struck by the little things that are so lovely: people washing the sidewalk in front of a shop or shrine and then drawing a simple, but beautiful pattern before the threshold. Flowers laying in the street – remnants from an offering at a shrine. And the glory of dress that is India. Everywhere, there are dotis on the men and exquisite saris and chalwar kemeez (tunic and baggy pants with a long scarf) on the women. Despite the disrepair of the streets and the litter, one sees the people in their beautiful clothing. Even women doing construction work were in colorful saris, holding a tray of bricks on their heads and swaying gracefully in their work.
As we meandered through this day, it was the clothing and decoration of the people that struck me the most. I have been so numbed by the sea of blue jeans, tee-shirts, and suits that is our world. It is as if we are afraid to be something or someone. We, in our quest for equality, have a tendency to be all the same – despite our immense freedom and liberty. It is an interesting thing here, for India is such a mix of many, many beliefs and ideologies. Here, there is no homogeneity. The modern western education is trying to instill this homogeneity through the media and political expedience, but what will the price be? Here, on every face, I see a commitment of attitude and dress to something. There walks a business man. Here is a devotee of Shiva with the tell-tale stripes on the forehead. Here is a follower of Vishnu, again with a distinguishing mark. Choices of sari, dhoti, chalwar keemez, western clothing all herald a people who are committed to some way of life and willing to be open about that commitment. Even amongst the very poor, one sees this commitment of attitude and dress. Indeed, every conversation we have had, from the person in a restaurant to the taxi driver, will inevitably end up revolving around the two taboo topics in American culture – religion and politics. And such conversations!! This is not just a cursory discussion, but an animated, detailed, intelligent, and enlightening conversation about many aspects of their own religion and all the others as well. Or about politics. Or technology. Whatever the topic, it is embraced fully so understanding can be met and is not limited to the “polite conversation” of weather and sport. All the differences require the utmost in concentration and understanding, and make for remarkable individuals.
There were two main stops of the day. First, after an altercation with the autobus driver (small three wheeled open vehicle) which did not go well (must gain more finesse in the bargaining department), we opted for a taxi from the hotel – more expensive but no argument). Our first stop was to St. Thom’s Cathedral near the beach. This has been a place of worship for 2000 years, though the present church was built in 1896 in a simple Neo-Gothic style with a lovely teak roof. The original church was probably built by Nestorian Christians from Persia in the 10th century. St. Thom’s marks the place where St. Thomas the Apostle is buried and is only one of three churches that is over the tomb of an apostle. The public has access to a room underground with a shrine to St. Thomas over his tomb. A glass on the ground in front of the lifesize statue of St. Thomas shows the dirt above the tomb. The ambience of the room is neutral, but there is an air of presence and piety that is quite profound. Quietly, one sees priests in robes and nuns in habits – something which I have seen only rarely since my earliest childhood. Such a helpful outward manifestation to an inner way of life, whose example is a light and help. What a loss it is that the Catholic Church hides its people behind modern dress. In addition to St. Thomas’s tomb, there is also a dark-skinned Virgin, Our Lady of Mylapore. Indian women quietly stand in front of her, saying prayers and supplications, much as St. Francis Xavier did many, many years ago. There are two other places in Chennai sacred to the memory of St. Thomas which we were unable to visit at this time. The first was where he was martyred and the second was a cave where he liked to pray. It is said that there are two handprints on the wall of the cave made by the holy apostle and that the spring was created when he struck a rock with his staff.
From Christian India, we venture forth to Hindu India, traversing the crowded streets on foot to the Kapalishvara Temple. There has been a temple here since at least the 7th century, but the present temple dates from the 16th century built in the Dravidian style of southern India with its rainbow colored gopura and pavilions in front of the temple. Things are so old here, that already I find myself saying, “Oh, 16th century. That’s new.” To get there, we passed the streaming, packed streets of Chennai. As warned, pedestrians are the last on the pecking order of right-of-way on the streets in India. We carefully crossed streets amongst 4-5 lanes of traffic (mind you, this is on a two lane road – small, two lane road), bus, car, taxi, autobus, bullock, bicycle, then us. Sidewalks, in various states of disrepair, are not for walking, it seems. The people walk on the edges of the street, and we learned to walk on the right side, facing traffic (opposite of the US) to avoid the autobus drivers stopping and asking if we need a ride. Everywhere, tiny little shops selling just about everything. The streets are so dirty, despite the efforts of the people to keep the dirt at bay, that it is hard to see past the dirt and into the shops, noting that they contain everything under the sun. As I learned to look more closely, one saw shops selling basic food next to shops selling toilets, next to shops selling cell phones, next to a shrine, next to a shanty home, on and on and on. Each shop has several inhabitants, all curious, watching us go by. And, because it was so warm, we’d forgotten that it was winter – the sun began to set.
Yesterday, we walked down the main street of Chennai to the Bay of Bengal, a large beach approaches the sea with little fishing dinghies strewn in patches here and there. The beach is remarkably uncrowded and the water cool to the feet. As we walked down the street, I was struck by the little things that are so lovely: people washing the sidewalk in front of a shop or shrine and then drawing a simple, but beautiful pattern before the threshold. Flowers laying in the street – remnants from an offering at a shrine. And the glory of dress that is India. Everywhere, there are dotis on the men and exquisite saris and chalwar kemeez (tunic and baggy pants with a long scarf) on the women. Despite the disrepair of the streets and the litter, one sees the people in their beautiful clothing. Even women doing construction work were in colorful saris, holding a tray of bricks on their heads and swaying gracefully in their work.
As we meandered through this day, it was the clothing and decoration of the people that struck me the most. I have been so numbed by the sea of blue jeans, tee-shirts, and suits that is our world. It is as if we are afraid to be something or someone. We, in our quest for equality, have a tendency to be all the same – despite our immense freedom and liberty. It is an interesting thing here, for India is such a mix of many, many beliefs and ideologies. Here, there is no homogeneity. The modern western education is trying to instill this homogeneity through the media and political expedience, but what will the price be? Here, on every face, I see a commitment of attitude and dress to something. There walks a business man. Here is a devotee of Shiva with the tell-tale stripes on the forehead. Here is a follower of Vishnu, again with a distinguishing mark. Choices of sari, dhoti, chalwar keemez, western clothing all herald a people who are committed to some way of life and willing to be open about that commitment. Even amongst the very poor, one sees this commitment of attitude and dress. Indeed, every conversation we have had, from the person in a restaurant to the taxi driver, will inevitably end up revolving around the two taboo topics in American culture – religion and politics. And such conversations!! This is not just a cursory discussion, but an animated, detailed, intelligent, and enlightening conversation about many aspects of their own religion and all the others as well. Or about politics. Or technology. Whatever the topic, it is embraced fully so understanding can be met and is not limited to the “polite conversation” of weather and sport. All the differences require the utmost in concentration and understanding, and make for remarkable individuals.
There were two main stops of the day. First, after an altercation with the autobus driver (small three wheeled open vehicle) which did not go well (must gain more finesse in the bargaining department), we opted for a taxi from the hotel – more expensive but no argument). Our first stop was to St. Thom’s Cathedral near the beach. This has been a place of worship for 2000 years, though the present church was built in 1896 in a simple Neo-Gothic style with a lovely teak roof. The original church was probably built by Nestorian Christians from Persia in the 10th century. St. Thom’s marks the place where St. Thomas the Apostle is buried and is only one of three churches that is over the tomb of an apostle. The public has access to a room underground with a shrine to St. Thomas over his tomb. A glass on the ground in front of the lifesize statue of St. Thomas shows the dirt above the tomb. The ambience of the room is neutral, but there is an air of presence and piety that is quite profound. Quietly, one sees priests in robes and nuns in habits – something which I have seen only rarely since my earliest childhood. Such a helpful outward manifestation to an inner way of life, whose example is a light and help. What a loss it is that the Catholic Church hides its people behind modern dress. In addition to St. Thomas’s tomb, there is also a dark-skinned Virgin, Our Lady of Mylapore. Indian women quietly stand in front of her, saying prayers and supplications, much as St. Francis Xavier did many, many years ago. There are two other places in Chennai sacred to the memory of St. Thomas which we were unable to visit at this time. The first was where he was martyred and the second was a cave where he liked to pray. It is said that there are two handprints on the wall of the cave made by the holy apostle and that the spring was created when he struck a rock with his staff.
From Christian India, we venture forth to Hindu India, traversing the crowded streets on foot to the Kapalishvara Temple. There has been a temple here since at least the 7th century, but the present temple dates from the 16th century built in the Dravidian style of southern India with its rainbow colored gopura and pavilions in front of the temple. Things are so old here, that already I find myself saying, “Oh, 16th century. That’s new.” To get there, we passed the streaming, packed streets of Chennai. As warned, pedestrians are the last on the pecking order of right-of-way on the streets in India. We carefully crossed streets amongst 4-5 lanes of traffic (mind you, this is on a two lane road – small, two lane road), bus, car, taxi, autobus, bullock, bicycle, then us. Sidewalks, in various states of disrepair, are not for walking, it seems. The people walk on the edges of the street, and we learned to walk on the right side, facing traffic (opposite of the US) to avoid the autobus drivers stopping and asking if we need a ride. Everywhere, tiny little shops selling just about everything. The streets are so dirty, despite the efforts of the people to keep the dirt at bay, that it is hard to see past the dirt and into the shops, noting that they contain everything under the sun. As I learned to look more closely, one saw shops selling basic food next to shops selling toilets, next to shops selling cell phones, next to a shrine, next to a shanty home, on and on and on. Each shop has several inhabitants, all curious, watching us go by. And, because it was so warm, we’d forgotten that it was winter – the sun began to set.
Linda: First Moments
First Moments
For nearly two years, we have been researching and planning this trip, a proposal instigating by Eleanor and embraced by our family. It has been an interesting and enlightening process - a journey of research prior to the now present reality.
Our thanks extend to many people whose advice and help have made this excursion possible and prepared us for our first day here. As I edit this, now nearly one week into our journey, I realize how much of what has been easy in our adjustment has been due to the previous experiences and advice of others; contrarily, some of the difficulties we’ve also experienced could have been remedied by a few simple questions! Asking the right person, the right question, at the right time. And then, all is possible on every level. It is a lesson I meet throughout my life. There are those whom I love who are shining examples of knowing the questions to ask and having the capacity to ask them. India will afford ample opportunities to practice this, I am sure, as well as to learn, once again, to live fully in the moment.
On board the plane, one has ample opportunity to reflect. This journey has been discussed for so long that it did not seem very real – an abstract possibility that was interesting to plan, discuss, and research. And as the plane was flying away from home, I wondered, not for the first time, what possessed me to come so far for so long. From all accounts, this journey would be one that would have its immense beauty and also its trials. What will we face? Though I had many impressions and information, when I tried to project these expectations forward all I saw was a blank page, waiting for the pen to write. The joke of our travels was to not end up like a person we’d heard about, who left India in 24 hours – never to return. Though it was so unlikely that this would occur, there was that nagging doubt that we may do just that.
There was an excitement in flying over the Atlantic, leaving snowy Chicago for Brussels and, some may be surprised, my first step in Continental Europe. Every step of our way was surrounded by kind, helpful people – and we are especially grateful to the Belgian air personnel who returned Eleanor’s wallet. Thanks to a kind friend, Eleanor had some Indian rupees – which we ended up needing immediately! It was cloudy as we flew over Europe. I was hoping to see the Alps from the plane – perhaps on our return. The next time I looked down, lights were twinkly over Isfahan, and I thought of some dear friends who were quietly sleeping far below, sprinkling our prayers and good wishes from high (very high) above.
This was one of the few times in my life that the flights I booked actually ran on time, though there was the last minute scramble in Bloomington to catch the first flight. As Eleanor probably stated, our flight was cancelled and we received a phone call that the only other flight was leaving in 3 hours! Thankfully, Patrick answered his phone, my father dashed out of bed, we piled the last minute things in our bags and left some things undone – including the opening of Christmas presents which we were hoping to do that morning!! As a side note, American Airlines has a long ways to go to compete with the service and comfort of Indian run Jet Air. As with the auto industry, much can be learned from others who have had to learn to compete against the odds. The seat bottoms slid forward as well as the backs tilting, we received scented warm washcloths to refresh our selves upon arrival and just before touching down, the coffee and tea was endless, the meal choices served in beautiful containers (all delicious), an endless array of entertainment, and a general calm and relaxed atmosphere. Simple things that make such a difference! It is the details which make a difference, a precept which I must carry back with me. How often we choose to buy something because of that little extraneous detail of comfort and beauty that has nothing to do with function. How important it is to take a few moments and think of the little things one can do to make an activity more appealing and enjoyable. I’m convinced that it really does not take much effort, just more thoughtfulness.
We arrived at midnight to a balmy Indian night. We’d expected to go through the usual conglomeration of pay phones, ATM’s, and little offices where one can book hotels, etc. We quickly went through customs and all of a sudden, we were outside. There we were, amongst a sea of smiling Indian faces, some holding signs, some waiting quietly and expectantly for their loved ones. It was a blessing to come at night, as the swell of horns beeping and people milling were diminished and we could calmly ride out to a taxi and to our hotel where, despite reservations confirmed by email and a deposit, there was no room! Again, our good advice upheld us, as we half expected this. There is a very large musical festival in Chennai going on and rooms are at a premium. A single room was found in an hour and we all squeezed into it with a second room coming available at noon the next day. We had arrived!
Our first day was spent trying to get Patrick set up with an internet account and getting a cell phone. Even getting a cell phone took two days, and getting an internet account was impossible. People from India were surprised that his was impossible, and suspect that security on internet access is extremely high due to the recent events in Mumbai. One has to have a local address, verified by photo ID to have internet access in India. So … internet cafes and buying service at hotels will be our way back home. Our hotel is inside a walled compound with many trees and security personnel at the gates. The security was less for safety than to keep the streets of Chennai from spilling into the compound, providing an oasis of quiet for which we were grateful. There are remarkably few Westerners with us due to the musical festival. In fact, many of the musicians were staying with us. If we had only known earlier!! Or stayed longer!! And so, we are thrust into Indian culture in a very hospitable mode. Everyone greets us with warmth and interest, especially when Eleanor and I dress in saris. It was later when we found out how much this was noticed … and appreciated.
लिंडा/Linda
12-29-08
Today we traveled from Chennai to Kanchipuram, familiarly known simply as Kanchi, which is much easier to remember. We started off around noon, after having packed, checked out, and eaten. The taxi driver was very talkative. He was a Jain and was eager to explain many points of his religion to his equally eager audience. I was attempting to balance between listening and reading my book, which was at the good part, and while I succeeded fairly well, I did miss a bit of the conversation. He explained that non-violence was the key to a “smooth” life, without difficulties. Jains are vegetarians because they cannot harm animals. They do not even eat eggs. He also said that meditation and yoga were good.
After we arrived in Kanchi, we checked into our hotel. As soon as possible, I jumped into bed and continued reading. Dad and Mom went out and walked around for a bit while Patrick and I held down the fort at the hotel. Dad said that they couldn’t have been stared at more and wished that he had worn traditional clothes just to provide an excuse for the people staring at him. Kanchi much smaller than Chennai and much more conservative so they are probably not used to foreigners parading around in saris. While this is a pilgrimage site – it has many old temples and is the home of the Jagadguru, the successor of Sri Sankaracharya, a Shaivite saint – and has many tourists, most of them are Indian, not American.
I am proud to say that I finished the book by dinnertime and thoroughly enjoyed it, but now I have nothing to read. That’s probably a good thing, though, because it was very distracting. The hotel restaurant in which we dined was much louder then the one in Chennai. The food was still tasty however, and that is what matters.
After we arrived in Kanchi, we checked into our hotel. As soon as possible, I jumped into bed and continued reading. Dad and Mom went out and walked around for a bit while Patrick and I held down the fort at the hotel. Dad said that they couldn’t have been stared at more and wished that he had worn traditional clothes just to provide an excuse for the people staring at him. Kanchi much smaller than Chennai and much more conservative so they are probably not used to foreigners parading around in saris. While this is a pilgrimage site – it has many old temples and is the home of the Jagadguru, the successor of Sri Sankaracharya, a Shaivite saint – and has many tourists, most of them are Indian, not American.
I am proud to say that I finished the book by dinnertime and thoroughly enjoyed it, but now I have nothing to read. That’s probably a good thing, though, because it was very distracting. The hotel restaurant in which we dined was much louder then the one in Chennai. The food was still tasty however, and that is what matters.
12-27-08
Today was our first day of real sight-seeing, even though we didn’t begin until about 4:00 pm. In the morning, we woke up late, had a nice breakfast, milled around doing a few things, and went to The Mobile Store, with plans to procure our desired cell phone and internet service. I planned on posting all my journal entries that I have been typing, but unfortunately, this was not meant to be. While our passport, photocopy, and photo we were able to purchase a cell phone for what Patrick called the “ungodly cheap” price of 1300 rupees (~$26). However, to buy internet service, we had to either be a resident of Chennai or have a friend vouch for us. Our only contact in Chennai is presently in Uganda visiting her brother. So after an hour or so of discussion, we left the shop without the hoped for internet access.
In the late afternoon we hired a taxi to take us to the St. Thomas Cathedral, or Santhome. This cathedral is the burial place of St. Thomas, one of the twelve apostles. It is beautiful and filled with peace. There was a wedding going on in the main part of the church, so we could not enter without being horribly rude (although I took a few pictures on the sly) but the grave itself is not in the main building but in a chapel next to it, which was open to tourists and disciples alike. Over the grave is a depiction of St. Thomas, but there is a small glass window which reveals the earth beneath which the saint lies. It was a very beautiful place. There were also many relics, including a statue of Our Lady of Mylapore and a cross belonging to St Francis Xavier.
After Santhome, we visited the Kapaleeshwarar Temple. The intricacy of the carvings on the side and top of the buildings is incredible. I tried to recognize some of the gods and myths using my limited knowledge of Hinduism but could not. We walked through the temple grounds passing various shrines to various gods. The only one I recognized was Shiva’s, with the decorated Shiva Linga just visible through the doorway. I felt a bit out of place, a tiourist in a living temple. This was no historical monument to a people or culture long dead, like the ruins or an ancient, unused palace. This was a place that was still used on a daily basis for people to worship their gods, and I felt as though I had no real right to be watching them.
In the late afternoon we hired a taxi to take us to the St. Thomas Cathedral, or Santhome. This cathedral is the burial place of St. Thomas, one of the twelve apostles. It is beautiful and filled with peace. There was a wedding going on in the main part of the church, so we could not enter without being horribly rude (although I took a few pictures on the sly) but the grave itself is not in the main building but in a chapel next to it, which was open to tourists and disciples alike. Over the grave is a depiction of St. Thomas, but there is a small glass window which reveals the earth beneath which the saint lies. It was a very beautiful place. There were also many relics, including a statue of Our Lady of Mylapore and a cross belonging to St Francis Xavier.
After Santhome, we visited the Kapaleeshwarar Temple. The intricacy of the carvings on the side and top of the buildings is incredible. I tried to recognize some of the gods and myths using my limited knowledge of Hinduism but could not. We walked through the temple grounds passing various shrines to various gods. The only one I recognized was Shiva’s, with the decorated Shiva Linga just visible through the doorway. I felt a bit out of place, a tiourist in a living temple. This was no historical monument to a people or culture long dead, like the ruins or an ancient, unused palace. This was a place that was still used on a daily basis for people to worship their gods, and I felt as though I had no real right to be watching them.
12-26-08 evening
Around noon, we ventured forth from our hotel room. Our final destination was the not-so-distant beach, but it required walking quite a number of blocks. Along the way, we stopped at The Mobile Store to try and purchase a cell phone and internet service. The salesman was very helpful and relatively easy to understand despite his accent. However, the process was more complicated than we had expected and we were told we had to return with a passport, a photocopy of said passport, and a passport sized photo. Undiscouraged, we decided to return the following day, thinking one day would hardly make a difference, and continued on towards the beach.
Walking beside the street, or in the street itself when the sidewalk is non-existent, covered in rubble, or blocked by a large tree or street vendor, is a very different experience than in the US. Auto-Rickshaw drivers harass foreigners in the hopes of outrageously overcharging them for a short ride; vehicles make as much noise as possible, honking at every opportunity and creating opportunities if they do not present themselves often enough. The variety of horns heard on the streets of Chennai is quite incredible, from the high-pitched, squeaky toot of a rickshaw to the low, loud, bellow of a bus. Even a boy on his bicycle rang his bell because he lacked anything more substantial. The streets are quite dirty – there were even the occasional human feces – but I had been warned and, while I was extremely grateful for my shoes, it did not bother me overmuch. Because the ocean nearby blows steady breezes through the city, smells do not hang on the air for long. If a smell becomes overpowering, holding your breath for ten seconds and continuing forward usually solves the problem.
There are not a huge number of beggars on the streets of Chennai, but their presence certainly brings down my mood. I wish I could help all of them, but that is impossible. I have decided to save my funds for hungry children. There was a lot of litter on the beach and the water is polluted from oil tankers, so you cannot swim in it. But I dipped my feet in, which was lovely, and the sea breeze blew away the headache-inducing smells of pollution. (Fortunately, the pollution has not affected my health yet and my asthma has not flared up. This was a major worry of mine. As Chennai is one of the more polluted cities we will be visiting, I am quite hopeful that I will not get shipped back to the States, puffing on my inhaler all the way.)
The food is delicious. I cannot get enough of it. Mom is carefully avoiding peppers and oil because they make her sick, which limits the variety of food for her. But I have totally disregarded all my food allergies in my enthusiasm for trying new things (I usually don’t know exactly what I’m ordering) and so far I have not gotten sick.
I was warned several times that, upon arriving in India, I would go into shock. I considered writing that this did not happen in the last post, but did not want to jinx it and thought that it might change once I actually walked around a bit outside our walled and guarded hotel. But it didn’t happen. I have slipped into the life of a traveler of India with surprising ease, although it did take me three tries to tie my sari.
Walking beside the street, or in the street itself when the sidewalk is non-existent, covered in rubble, or blocked by a large tree or street vendor, is a very different experience than in the US. Auto-Rickshaw drivers harass foreigners in the hopes of outrageously overcharging them for a short ride; vehicles make as much noise as possible, honking at every opportunity and creating opportunities if they do not present themselves often enough. The variety of horns heard on the streets of Chennai is quite incredible, from the high-pitched, squeaky toot of a rickshaw to the low, loud, bellow of a bus. Even a boy on his bicycle rang his bell because he lacked anything more substantial. The streets are quite dirty – there were even the occasional human feces – but I had been warned and, while I was extremely grateful for my shoes, it did not bother me overmuch. Because the ocean nearby blows steady breezes through the city, smells do not hang on the air for long. If a smell becomes overpowering, holding your breath for ten seconds and continuing forward usually solves the problem.
There are not a huge number of beggars on the streets of Chennai, but their presence certainly brings down my mood. I wish I could help all of them, but that is impossible. I have decided to save my funds for hungry children. There was a lot of litter on the beach and the water is polluted from oil tankers, so you cannot swim in it. But I dipped my feet in, which was lovely, and the sea breeze blew away the headache-inducing smells of pollution. (Fortunately, the pollution has not affected my health yet and my asthma has not flared up. This was a major worry of mine. As Chennai is one of the more polluted cities we will be visiting, I am quite hopeful that I will not get shipped back to the States, puffing on my inhaler all the way.)
The food is delicious. I cannot get enough of it. Mom is carefully avoiding peppers and oil because they make her sick, which limits the variety of food for her. But I have totally disregarded all my food allergies in my enthusiasm for trying new things (I usually don’t know exactly what I’m ordering) and so far I have not gotten sick.
I was warned several times that, upon arriving in India, I would go into shock. I considered writing that this did not happen in the last post, but did not want to jinx it and thought that it might change once I actually walked around a bit outside our walled and guarded hotel. But it didn’t happen. I have slipped into the life of a traveler of India with surprising ease, although it did take me three tries to tie my sari.
12-26-08
Yesterday was a day of traveling. It was quite boring for most of the time, but there was one moment of adventure. As we were boarding the plane in Brussels, the man checking our boarding passes said, “Ms. Hitchings, can I see your wallet?” Ms. Hitchings is, by my way of thinking, my mother, not me. She pulled out her wallet and showed it to him. He handed it back saying, “No. Ms. Hitchings, Eleanor. May I see your wallet?” I opened my disorganized purse and started shuffeling through it. I checked all the pockets, starting to get worried. The man then smiled and held up my faded leather wallet. “Is this yours? It was left on the last flight.” I was relieved, but one can imagine the teasing and remonstrations I received. I was also worried. If I was so careless as to simply leave my wallet behind, how would I fare in a country where the likelihood of its being stolen was much higher than in Bloomington? I will try to be more aware of my surroundings and possessions from now on.
The flight from Brussels to Chennai was much nicer than American flights. The flight attendants were helpful and kind. The food was delicious. The seats had more space. It was almost comfortable even by normal standards rather than plane standards.
We arrived in Chennai around midnight. That means it was approximately 2:30 in the afternoon back home. This, combined with 36 hours of travel, resulted in an odd overly-tired awakeness. The airport was an airport, albeit an airport with a slightly dirtier carpet. That didn’t bother me, though. The first thing I noticed when we walked outside was the overwhelming number of people. Around a thousand people, of different shapes, sizes, complexions, and styles of clothing ranging from western jeans and T-shirts to brightly colored saris to a man in a sarong and no shoes were waiting to pick up the new arrivals. Many were waving signs saying “Mr. Smith. Welcome to India” or “Mrs. Thompson and family. New Woodlands Hotel”.
The smell is what struck me next. It varied from step to step. I passed a man with a bag full of garlands of flowers and their sweet perfume overwhelmed my senses. Next moment I was covering my nose with a scarf to block out the smell of pollution. Fortunately, one of my friends had given me some rupees as a Christmas present. It was life saving. We got a pre-paid taxi and headed for the hotel immediately. The taxi driver suggested we tip the porter, who only carried one our four bags, 10 rupees, which he scoffed at.
The taxi and the driving capabilities of its driver were quite incredible. The driver placed our luggage in the trunk and slammed it closed, causing the feeble door to wobble considerably. The engine was loud and, as we started off, the entire car shook. Once we got going however, the driver was soon weaving in and out of traffic, sometimes with less than a foot of space to spare between us and the other car, and honking at both trucks three times our size and motorcycles one third our size. We arrived at our hotel to discover that our rooms had been given away, despite the 3600 rupee ($75) deposit we had paid to ensure a room for at least our first night. We ended up squeezing into one small room with a bed and an extra mattress. I claimed the mattress and Mom got the bed, leaving Patrick in some chairs and Dad sleeping on a blanket on the marble floor. I awoke to the sun shining on my face. I looked out the window and saw palm trees and other greenery. I then learned how to take bath with just a smallish bucket of hot water and discovered that I had either somehow misplaced my toothbrush or never packed it. I suspect it probably fell out on the plane with my wallet and was not deemed important enough to turn in.
After spending some time organizing ourselves and our suitcases (I put on my sari three times before I was satisfied that it wasn’t horribly poofy) we walked down the four flights of stairs to our breakfast. The elevator was broken. Breakfast was excellent. We each had one Idly, a rice cake, with various sauces and Dad and I each had a Dosai, bread, which we shared, of course. The total cost of our meal, along with two teas and two coffees, was 214 rupees, less than four dollars. It was at this point that I decided to move t India but have a job in the US so I can always eat as much delicious food as I want. We are now repacking and planning on moving to our two rooms which we had reserved. It is a beautiful day outside; it is not too hot or humid and the birds are singing.
The flight from Brussels to Chennai was much nicer than American flights. The flight attendants were helpful and kind. The food was delicious. The seats had more space. It was almost comfortable even by normal standards rather than plane standards.
We arrived in Chennai around midnight. That means it was approximately 2:30 in the afternoon back home. This, combined with 36 hours of travel, resulted in an odd overly-tired awakeness. The airport was an airport, albeit an airport with a slightly dirtier carpet. That didn’t bother me, though. The first thing I noticed when we walked outside was the overwhelming number of people. Around a thousand people, of different shapes, sizes, complexions, and styles of clothing ranging from western jeans and T-shirts to brightly colored saris to a man in a sarong and no shoes were waiting to pick up the new arrivals. Many were waving signs saying “Mr. Smith. Welcome to India” or “Mrs. Thompson and family. New Woodlands Hotel”.
The smell is what struck me next. It varied from step to step. I passed a man with a bag full of garlands of flowers and their sweet perfume overwhelmed my senses. Next moment I was covering my nose with a scarf to block out the smell of pollution. Fortunately, one of my friends had given me some rupees as a Christmas present. It was life saving. We got a pre-paid taxi and headed for the hotel immediately. The taxi driver suggested we tip the porter, who only carried one our four bags, 10 rupees, which he scoffed at.
The taxi and the driving capabilities of its driver were quite incredible. The driver placed our luggage in the trunk and slammed it closed, causing the feeble door to wobble considerably. The engine was loud and, as we started off, the entire car shook. Once we got going however, the driver was soon weaving in and out of traffic, sometimes with less than a foot of space to spare between us and the other car, and honking at both trucks three times our size and motorcycles one third our size. We arrived at our hotel to discover that our rooms had been given away, despite the 3600 rupee ($75) deposit we had paid to ensure a room for at least our first night. We ended up squeezing into one small room with a bed and an extra mattress. I claimed the mattress and Mom got the bed, leaving Patrick in some chairs and Dad sleeping on a blanket on the marble floor. I awoke to the sun shining on my face. I looked out the window and saw palm trees and other greenery. I then learned how to take bath with just a smallish bucket of hot water and discovered that I had either somehow misplaced my toothbrush or never packed it. I suspect it probably fell out on the plane with my wallet and was not deemed important enough to turn in.
After spending some time organizing ourselves and our suitcases (I put on my sari three times before I was satisfied that it wasn’t horribly poofy) we walked down the four flights of stairs to our breakfast. The elevator was broken. Breakfast was excellent. We each had one Idly, a rice cake, with various sauces and Dad and I each had a Dosai, bread, which we shared, of course. The total cost of our meal, along with two teas and two coffees, was 214 rupees, less than four dollars. It was at this point that I decided to move t India but have a job in the US so I can always eat as much delicious food as I want. We are now repacking and planning on moving to our two rooms which we had reserved. It is a beautiful day outside; it is not too hot or humid and the birds are singing.
12-24-08
We didn't have internet for a while, so these posts are a bit old. sorry!
Our trip, which Mom has now dubbed “the Comedy of Errors”, has begun with quite a bang. I hope that our scramble to get on the flight from Indianapolis to Chicago is not foreshadowing for the rest of our travels. The flight was scheduled for 1:00 p.m., leaving time for a fairly leisurely morning, a tasty breakfast, and time to open Christmas presents. At around 4 in the morning, we received a phone call from American Airlines telling us that our flight and the one after had been cancelled. Our only option, if we wanted to make the connecting flight, was to fly at 8:00 a.m. There was chaos in our house. My parents called my brother, Patrick, who had not yet finished packing, and my grandfather, who was driving us to the airport. Fortunately, both picked up. We were driving toward the airport by around 5:30 on roads that were relatively empty and free of ice. The hour-long drive was, for me, a strange combination of adrenaline and sleepiness. We arrived at the airport at 6:30 where we printed out boarding passes and checked in luggage as fast as we could. When we went through security, Dad could not find his boarding pass. “Well, it looks like Matthew Hitchings isn’t flying today,” said the security officer. After digging around in his carry-on for a bit, however, Dad found the offending pass.
We got to our gate with time to spare only to discover that the flight before ours, scheduled to leave for St. Louis at 7:00, had boarded and then been asked to unboard again. All the people from that flight and more and more people from ours congregated around gate B9. We milled about in confusion for a while, asking passengers who were just as confused as we were if they knew what was happening. After checking the departures board three times, it was announced that our gate had been changed.
You would think that, after boarding the plane, our adventures would end, that we would be safe in the competent hands of trained experts. No such luck. Halfway through the flight, Mom spilled scalding Green Tea on my left and her right leg, causing shrieks, first degree burns, and wet clothing. We cleaned up the mess with napkins (fortunately none of our bags got wet), but I am now walking with a slight limp because of my shoes rubbing against my tender left foot.
Our final adventure so far was when we discovered that not all the boarding passes printed. As of now, Patrick and I have no way of leaving Brussels for Chennai. This is a problem we have yet to deal with but we have time as our flight does not leave for Brussels until 4:45 and it is only 10:00. We have eaten a breakfast that tasted suspiciously like lunch, but we have been awake for seven hours. (If you are wondering how I calculated that 10-4=7, you are forgetting the time change.) Rather than be put out by these setbacks, I am quite happy. Maybe the trip would still seem unreal if everything had gone smoothly. Things do not generally go smoothly when my family flies, so I suppose that is what I am used to. We will soon see what the next leg of the journey turns up.
Our trip, which Mom has now dubbed “the Comedy of Errors”, has begun with quite a bang. I hope that our scramble to get on the flight from Indianapolis to Chicago is not foreshadowing for the rest of our travels. The flight was scheduled for 1:00 p.m., leaving time for a fairly leisurely morning, a tasty breakfast, and time to open Christmas presents. At around 4 in the morning, we received a phone call from American Airlines telling us that our flight and the one after had been cancelled. Our only option, if we wanted to make the connecting flight, was to fly at 8:00 a.m. There was chaos in our house. My parents called my brother, Patrick, who had not yet finished packing, and my grandfather, who was driving us to the airport. Fortunately, both picked up. We were driving toward the airport by around 5:30 on roads that were relatively empty and free of ice. The hour-long drive was, for me, a strange combination of adrenaline and sleepiness. We arrived at the airport at 6:30 where we printed out boarding passes and checked in luggage as fast as we could. When we went through security, Dad could not find his boarding pass. “Well, it looks like Matthew Hitchings isn’t flying today,” said the security officer. After digging around in his carry-on for a bit, however, Dad found the offending pass.
We got to our gate with time to spare only to discover that the flight before ours, scheduled to leave for St. Louis at 7:00, had boarded and then been asked to unboard again. All the people from that flight and more and more people from ours congregated around gate B9. We milled about in confusion for a while, asking passengers who were just as confused as we were if they knew what was happening. After checking the departures board three times, it was announced that our gate had been changed.
You would think that, after boarding the plane, our adventures would end, that we would be safe in the competent hands of trained experts. No such luck. Halfway through the flight, Mom spilled scalding Green Tea on my left and her right leg, causing shrieks, first degree burns, and wet clothing. We cleaned up the mess with napkins (fortunately none of our bags got wet), but I am now walking with a slight limp because of my shoes rubbing against my tender left foot.
Our final adventure so far was when we discovered that not all the boarding passes printed. As of now, Patrick and I have no way of leaving Brussels for Chennai. This is a problem we have yet to deal with but we have time as our flight does not leave for Brussels until 4:45 and it is only 10:00. We have eaten a breakfast that tasted suspiciously like lunch, but we have been awake for seven hours. (If you are wondering how I calculated that 10-4=7, you are forgetting the time change.) Rather than be put out by these setbacks, I am quite happy. Maybe the trip would still seem unreal if everything had gone smoothly. Things do not generally go smoothly when my family flies, so I suppose that is what I am used to. We will soon see what the next leg of the journey turns up.
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