The Monkey Kingdom – Hampi
Nestled in the center of the state of Karnataka, 100 km from the west coast of Goa and near the small city of Hospet is the village of Hampi. Now a small hamlet that survives mainly on the pilgrim and tourist trade, this World Heritage Center has, in fact, attracted hermits and priests for thousands of years. Its history begins in legend and mythology, being the ancient capital of the Monkey Kingdom, Kishkinda, whose famous ambassador Hanuman, helped Rama find and regain his beloved Sita. This is from the wonderful epic, The Ramayana, which I read to my children when they were small and which we all have re-read since. Everyone who has come here has said it was one of their favorite places and even the guide books said that people often come for a few days and stay for a few weeks. If we did not need to go to our lessons in Kerala, Eleanor and I would be one of those people who stayed for those extra weeks.
The area around Hampi is surrounded by mountains of enormous boulders with a lovely river and winding creeks. The boulders, it is said, are from the antics of the monkey armies of long ago, who threw the rocks as evidence of their prowess. It certainly seems that this could be so, for the boulders are strewn in amazing configurations and piles. Wandering in the wilderness here is something like the American southwest in that it is warm and dry with cool, cool breezes and comfort in the shade. The color of the rocks change as the day goes by, yellow in the afternoon and lovely shades of pinks and purples as the sun sets. The fords in the rivers in this area have been considered sacred sites for thousands of years and there have been several important temples dotted along the river. One is still in use - the others, magnificent and picturesque ruins amongst the rocks. The large temples were mainly built during a short period of historical significance during the reign of the Vijayanagar kings. This reign began in the first half of the 14th century when two brothers were captured by the Moghul king, Tughluq. They were taken to Delhi where they reputedly converted to Islam and gained prominence in the government there. Indeed, they were trusted enough that they were sent to quell disquiet in the area of Kampila, which they did, only to abandon Islam and began to establish their own Hindu kingdom. Gaining vast tracts of land, they established Vijayanagar, City of Victory, in 1343, which lies on the outskirts of Hampi, where they enjoyed a monopoly on the lucrative trade of Arabian horses and silk. By the 1500’s, Portuguese traders were astonished by the immense riches of the area, with average citizens bedecked in costly jewels, ornate palaces, and joyous festivals. Its seven walls and massive fortifications made the city impregnable. In 1565, the Vijayanagar king started interfering with the rule of the Mughul government, then at its height under the clement rule of Akbar. During an armed conflict with the Mughuls, the Muslim generals threw in their support with Akbar and this kingdom fell. The palaces were large and ornate structures of wood on beautiful stone pedestals, and succumbed to the ravishes of fire. Within eight months, the entire city had disappeared and all that is left are the beautiful stone temples, a few royal buildings in stone, the immense public and private tanks and baths, and the foundations of hundreds of homes and palaces laid in orderly fashion amongst gardens and elaborate irrigation systems. It is quite an education seeing the layout of the city and the system of running water that had flowed through aqueducts from the surrounding mountains, continually replenishing the tanks and ditches.
Our days were spent wandering this beautiful countryside. We walked 5-7 hours a day, partially through the old ruins of the city and partially through the countryside. In the country, one is constantly delighted by the wonders both of nature and of man. Trails meander amongst the boulder mountains and fantastic outcroppings. And sprinkled generously throughout are temples of various sizes. Some are small enclosures about 10 feet square, perched against boulders or on top of them. Others are larger temples, often perched on the tops of impossible mountains, where access meant a scramble up these immense boulders – somewhat like the photographs I’ve seen of the monasteries in Greece. Other temples are by the rivers, tucked amongst the groves of banana and coconut and date, entwined with creepers and flowering vines, bushes, and trees. Here, the monkeys especially liked to play, chasing one another through the trees and ruins, with a ready supply of water and bananas nearby. The entire area covers many, many square miles, and one could easily spend weeks here, never going to the same place twice. The town itself is quiet and relaxed. It doesn’t attract the large tourist groups as it is not easily accessible. (We had a LONG overnight bus ride … on a local bus. All other connections were quite complicated. It is, however, fairly easy to get here from Goa, so the “hippie” crowd that frequents Goa is also here, to a smaller extent – which means decent lodgings at low prices and some interesting food options.)
The simple lifestyle has been wonderful. Each day, we walk for many hours and most of the day is spent out doors. All of the restaurants have terraces and our life is a little stream of meanderings, reading, eating, and sleeping. There are few “needs” and no “wants”. When one really lives simply, you really don’t need or want very much – a clean room, a little healthy food and clean water, and a few articles of clothing and personal effects. It is a liberation, and one’s thoughts and heart can go elsewhere than in the battle of the everyday. As someone recently reminded me: necessity, consecration, perfection. To understand and actualize that is everything – no matter where one is or in whatever situation one finds oneself.
We have met some interesting people here. One young man was helping us with our train tickets. He told us a little of his youth here. It seems that there is a type of racing/hunting breed of dog in the villages here that is quite special. They are large and lean, a bit like Greyhounds, but more beautiful and elegant. As a youth, he got a puppy from one of the villagers and began to train it, both to hunt (a necessity) and to run (a joy). They ran over 20 km everyday, throughout this magnificent countryside. His dog took many prizes in shows throughout, and caught the attention of a tourist who offered $3500 (US) for the dog – a king’s ransom here. He did not sell, nor will he ever sell one of his dogs. He ran with his dog for 5 years, and then the dog retired, though not completely – the dog was on watch duty at night, keeping the monkeys away from the family banana orchard. This dog has since passed away, as has his youth. He now has his own home, a wife, a child on the way, and a little business that seems to be successful. But, it was with a slightly quivering lip, a nostalgia for youth, as he showed us the photographs of that first dog.
Another man we met here was a tailor. He learned his trade from his father, who learned it from his father, and so on for generations. One could see that he took great pride in his occupation, loving the notion that he made clothes for a specific person, with their personality and their exact body measurements in mind. The clothes were made to be perfect for that person. But the onslaught of ready-made clothing is putting him out of business. What an immense shame, for his clothing is not only of better quality, both in make and fabric and fit, but is actually just as inexpensive as ready-made! He is from Rajasthan, and the ready made factories of the area employ all the tailors – at rock bottom wages. For him to make a decent living, he comes here, to Hampi, many, many kilometers away from his home, for the winter tourist season. Then, he visits his home and family for a short period of time before heading for Manali, in the Himalayas, for the summer tourist season there. He hasn’t seen his family for 5 months! So, the tragedy of the ready-made world is two fold. It is usurping the expertise of these tailors and having them go against their ideal of making clothing for a person, thus taking away the dignity of the profession, both because one makes the same thing, over and over, and because of the working conditions. Then, if one wishes to escape this, it means leaving one’s family. The family structure, especially in Rajasthan, is still one of extended family; one’s wife and children could come with him, but it would be very difficult for all and would leave the family without the extended support of father, mother, aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents – and those are the ones living at home! What a difficult predicament – one of those losses to the modern world that are incalculable and which are unforeseen by the west … unless you ask questions. Thus it has been for the artisan and craftsman since machines have come to rule. What an immense loss. One can only hope that this loss will never be complete – but it is quickly becoming the domain of “specialty” instead of the art and craft of everyday beauty – something for the wealthy, and not for everyone. And that is truly a deprivation for those of limited means, whose items of special beauty and craft are exported, while they are left with things “without soul”, being made by machine rather than man.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
2-10-09
We’d had some trouble deciding whether to stay in Khajaraho for one day or for two. But then Mom read in the Lonely Planet that there was a bathtub in our hotel and that clinched it: two days, if not three. I had my bath this morning and it was rather glorious to be able to soak luxuriously in the hot water, rather than having to worry about buckets and drains.
After a late breakfast, Mom and I headed out to the West Group of temples. All of the 85 temples in this area, of which 22 remain, were built by the Chandella Emporers between the 10th and 12th centuries. But they were abandoned when the Chandella Empire fell apart and left to the jungle. They were not rediscovered until the 1830s when TS Burt, a young British Officer, was led here by his palanquin bearers. He described them as “rearing their sun-burnt tops above the huge trees by which they were surrounded, with all the pride of superior height and age” but also warned his fellow Victorians that “the sculptor had at times allowed his subject to grow a little warmer than there was any absolute necessity for his doing”.
The thousands of sculptures and friezes depict aspects of everyday life from armies going off to war to women applying cosmetics, from couples in loving embrace to tiger hunts. There was even on a man sculpting an elephant with a chisel. Everything is incredibly well preserved, especially considering the millennium which has passed since these were carved. The beautiful faces are still clearly visible; even emotions can be read.
Mom and I listened to an Audio Guide which told some of the history as well as pointing out and describing certain individual works of art, such as the woman removing a thorn from her foot.
After visiting the West Group, we decided to leave the East and South Groups for tomorrow and just rest. I typed a lot. As you can see, I was quite behind in my posting, but have now caught up, thank goodness. We ate dinner at Bella Italia, which was tasty. I got fettuccini, obviously not Indian food, and my taste buds welcomed the change from fiery to savory.
After a late breakfast, Mom and I headed out to the West Group of temples. All of the 85 temples in this area, of which 22 remain, were built by the Chandella Emporers between the 10th and 12th centuries. But they were abandoned when the Chandella Empire fell apart and left to the jungle. They were not rediscovered until the 1830s when TS Burt, a young British Officer, was led here by his palanquin bearers. He described them as “rearing their sun-burnt tops above the huge trees by which they were surrounded, with all the pride of superior height and age” but also warned his fellow Victorians that “the sculptor had at times allowed his subject to grow a little warmer than there was any absolute necessity for his doing”.
The thousands of sculptures and friezes depict aspects of everyday life from armies going off to war to women applying cosmetics, from couples in loving embrace to tiger hunts. There was even on a man sculpting an elephant with a chisel. Everything is incredibly well preserved, especially considering the millennium which has passed since these were carved. The beautiful faces are still clearly visible; even emotions can be read.
Mom and I listened to an Audio Guide which told some of the history as well as pointing out and describing certain individual works of art, such as the woman removing a thorn from her foot.
After visiting the West Group, we decided to leave the East and South Groups for tomorrow and just rest. I typed a lot. As you can see, I was quite behind in my posting, but have now caught up, thank goodness. We ate dinner at Bella Italia, which was tasty. I got fettuccini, obviously not Indian food, and my taste buds welcomed the change from fiery to savory.
2-09-09
We got up early this morning to see the Taj at sunrise, but once again clouds prevented us from seeing the touted magnificence. We arrived at the train station before 8 am to be first in line at the tourist booking office when it opened. Despite this, all we could get a hold of were unreserved seats which could be upgraded by the conductor, if we could find him and seats were available. We had some difficulty in finding the correct train and when we did, there was a mad dash to get on. We ran up to the first door pushing ahead of Indians and dragging suitcases behind, but just before we reached the door, it was shut in our faces. We hurried to the next door, but the same thing happened. At the last door, a guard took pity on us and knocked on the shut door, telling the conductor o let us in. We walked in, expecting to be forced to stand for the next hour at least, but there were two seats right in front of us, and plenty of space for our bags as well. We’ve no idea why, but the door-man in our compartment had slammed the door shut before all the seats were taken. We were quite comfortable and decided not to upgrade.
I was a bit disappointed wih the normalcy of the situation, actually. This is probably the only time we will go unreserved and I had been looking forward to an adventure. I’d been old that some people take their chickens with them in unreserved cars, among other stories. No chickens in our car, though. No doubt they were all in the next car – the car with the door that got slammed in our faces.
We arrived in Jhansi without mishap and hired an auto rickshaw to take us to the bus station. Two men, friends of the driver, hopped in too. They spent the better part of the trip trying to convince us to take a taxi and lied through their teeth. “The bus will take 7 or 8 hours. A taxi takes only 3” “You will not get a seat on the bus” “The taxi is almost as cheap” etc. Eventually we shook them off.
At the bus station we had a bit of trouble finding the right bus. When we did, we took our assigned seats. The less than half full bus gave me a false sense of security. Our only problem was that Mom’s seat bounced too much because the lever moving it up and down was broken. I planned on switching seats with her halfway through the trip, but this proved to be impossible. At the next stop, people poured onto the bus and any hope of having enough space to move a leg or elbow disappeared, let alone the thought of switching seats.
We arrived in Khajaraho quite late. (This seems to be a common occurrence in our travels due, I suppose, to India’s immense size. What looks like a short jaunt on the map can, in fact, be quite a distance.) A boy about my age accompanied us from the station to our hotel in the rickshaw. He wanted to practice his English, which is understandable. Although it was late and I was in no mood to be understanding, his smile and laugh were infectious and I couldn’t bring myself to dislike him.
We ate a late dinner in the rooftop restaurant of our hotel. It was delicious, if a bit overpriced. Mom and I have taken to splitting meals, which means we can sample more dishes without overeating. It is a good system.
I was a bit disappointed wih the normalcy of the situation, actually. This is probably the only time we will go unreserved and I had been looking forward to an adventure. I’d been old that some people take their chickens with them in unreserved cars, among other stories. No chickens in our car, though. No doubt they were all in the next car – the car with the door that got slammed in our faces.
We arrived in Jhansi without mishap and hired an auto rickshaw to take us to the bus station. Two men, friends of the driver, hopped in too. They spent the better part of the trip trying to convince us to take a taxi and lied through their teeth. “The bus will take 7 or 8 hours. A taxi takes only 3” “You will not get a seat on the bus” “The taxi is almost as cheap” etc. Eventually we shook them off.
At the bus station we had a bit of trouble finding the right bus. When we did, we took our assigned seats. The less than half full bus gave me a false sense of security. Our only problem was that Mom’s seat bounced too much because the lever moving it up and down was broken. I planned on switching seats with her halfway through the trip, but this proved to be impossible. At the next stop, people poured onto the bus and any hope of having enough space to move a leg or elbow disappeared, let alone the thought of switching seats.
We arrived in Khajaraho quite late. (This seems to be a common occurrence in our travels due, I suppose, to India’s immense size. What looks like a short jaunt on the map can, in fact, be quite a distance.) A boy about my age accompanied us from the station to our hotel in the rickshaw. He wanted to practice his English, which is understandable. Although it was late and I was in no mood to be understanding, his smile and laugh were infectious and I couldn’t bring myself to dislike him.
We ate a late dinner in the rooftop restaurant of our hotel. It was delicious, if a bit overpriced. Mom and I have taken to splitting meals, which means we can sample more dishes without overeating. It is a good system.
2-08-09
How can I even begin to describe the Taj Mahal? It is a masterpiece, an unparalleled masterpiece. Words cannot describe it, photos cannot capture it, it must be viewed in person. Built by Shah Jahan, the grandson of Akbar, as the tomb for his beloved wife, it is a fantastic, fairytale worthy tribute to love, to architectural genius of two cultures, and to the might and wealth of the Mughals. Rudyard Kipling calls the Taj “the embodiment of all things pure” while the Indian Poet Rabindranath Tagore describes as “a resplendent, immortal teardrop on the cheek of eternity.” The walls are decorated with both Islamic and Indian motiefs, but most notable is the Islamic calligraphy.
We had questioned whether it would be worth the visit to Agra, the most touristy spot imaginable in all of India, just to see the Taj Mahal. It absolutely was. No question. Open sky is the only backdrop for this work of art and no amount of tourists can mar the beauty of this pearl. (This is not to say I did not wish there were fewer or no tourists. I kept thinking yesterday that it would have been wonderful to see Fatehpur Sikri at its zenith, with couriers in stately robes, Ranis peaking out of ornate windows, women in beautiful saris hurrying to bring their queens iced sherbet and Emperor Akbar, seated I all of his splendor, playing Parcheesi. But here at the Taj, emptiness seems better suited to the purity of the scene. Perhaps this was the intention; after all, it is a tomb, not a palace.)
After visiting the Taj Mahal, Mom and I went to explore Agra Fort. This has turned out to be a rather expensive day; first the Taj for Rs 750 ($16) and then Agra fort for the reduced price of Rs 250 ($5) because we’d visited the Taj. Now multiply everything by two. It is absolutely worth it, but I am so used to spending next to nothing. Our hotel costs about the same as one Taj Mahal ticket!
Agra fort was crumbling when Akbar restored it. Shah Jahan then replaced much of Akbar’s work with palace buildings in his favorite building material: white marble. In fact, Shah Jahan’s passion for architecture lost him the empire. Shortly after finishing the Taj Mahal and nearly breaking the immense Mughal treasury, Shah Jahan was imprisoned by his son, Aurangzeb, in a section of Agra Fort. From the windows, he could view the resting place of his beloved, but was never allowed to visit his masterpiece. He died in captivity eight years later. When the British took over, they used this fort as a barracks.
Agra Fort is immense. Even the small portion, Shah Jahan’s palace, which is open to the public is huge. Some is under excavation by the Archeological Survey of India, but most is still used by the Indian Army. We saw two Mosques, the private Audience Hall, the Public Audience, one floor of the palace where Shah Jahan lived, including courtyards, fountains, and more, and the room where the Mughal Emperors dolled out justice: a courtroom if you will. It was all amazing, but my senses are becoming dulled by the constant onslaught of opulent grandeur. Not to say that I did not feel as though I were on the border between the world of fairytales and the world I am used to.
After Agra Fort, we visited the Itimad-ud-dualah, fondly known as the Baby Taj. This tomb was built by Empress Nur Jahan, the wife of Jahangir, for her father, Chief Minister Mirza Ghiyath Beg. It is the predecessor of the Taj Mahal and marks the transition from red sandstone and white marble and the beginning of a new style of architecture, perfected in the Taj Mahal, known as “Mughal”, which combines Islamic and Indian styles. The tomb itself is constructed out of white marble but the pedestal upon which it stands is red sandstone. The walls are much more ornate than those of the Taj Mahal. The intricate floral designs, including both curling Persian vines and the stereotypically Indian lotus illustrate the femininity of the designer as well as her ability to unite two culturally different art forms.
We hurried back into town so we could see the Taj Mahal at sunset from a rooftop restaurant. Although the pearly walls changed color a bit, the clouds blocking the sun prevented us from seeing the brilliance boasted of in guidebooks.
We had questioned whether it would be worth the visit to Agra, the most touristy spot imaginable in all of India, just to see the Taj Mahal. It absolutely was. No question. Open sky is the only backdrop for this work of art and no amount of tourists can mar the beauty of this pearl. (This is not to say I did not wish there were fewer or no tourists. I kept thinking yesterday that it would have been wonderful to see Fatehpur Sikri at its zenith, with couriers in stately robes, Ranis peaking out of ornate windows, women in beautiful saris hurrying to bring their queens iced sherbet and Emperor Akbar, seated I all of his splendor, playing Parcheesi. But here at the Taj, emptiness seems better suited to the purity of the scene. Perhaps this was the intention; after all, it is a tomb, not a palace.)
After visiting the Taj Mahal, Mom and I went to explore Agra Fort. This has turned out to be a rather expensive day; first the Taj for Rs 750 ($16) and then Agra fort for the reduced price of Rs 250 ($5) because we’d visited the Taj. Now multiply everything by two. It is absolutely worth it, but I am so used to spending next to nothing. Our hotel costs about the same as one Taj Mahal ticket!
Agra fort was crumbling when Akbar restored it. Shah Jahan then replaced much of Akbar’s work with palace buildings in his favorite building material: white marble. In fact, Shah Jahan’s passion for architecture lost him the empire. Shortly after finishing the Taj Mahal and nearly breaking the immense Mughal treasury, Shah Jahan was imprisoned by his son, Aurangzeb, in a section of Agra Fort. From the windows, he could view the resting place of his beloved, but was never allowed to visit his masterpiece. He died in captivity eight years later. When the British took over, they used this fort as a barracks.
Agra Fort is immense. Even the small portion, Shah Jahan’s palace, which is open to the public is huge. Some is under excavation by the Archeological Survey of India, but most is still used by the Indian Army. We saw two Mosques, the private Audience Hall, the Public Audience, one floor of the palace where Shah Jahan lived, including courtyards, fountains, and more, and the room where the Mughal Emperors dolled out justice: a courtroom if you will. It was all amazing, but my senses are becoming dulled by the constant onslaught of opulent grandeur. Not to say that I did not feel as though I were on the border between the world of fairytales and the world I am used to.
After Agra Fort, we visited the Itimad-ud-dualah, fondly known as the Baby Taj. This tomb was built by Empress Nur Jahan, the wife of Jahangir, for her father, Chief Minister Mirza Ghiyath Beg. It is the predecessor of the Taj Mahal and marks the transition from red sandstone and white marble and the beginning of a new style of architecture, perfected in the Taj Mahal, known as “Mughal”, which combines Islamic and Indian styles. The tomb itself is constructed out of white marble but the pedestal upon which it stands is red sandstone. The walls are much more ornate than those of the Taj Mahal. The intricate floral designs, including both curling Persian vines and the stereotypically Indian lotus illustrate the femininity of the designer as well as her ability to unite two culturally different art forms.
We hurried back into town so we could see the Taj Mahal at sunset from a rooftop restaurant. Although the pearly walls changed color a bit, the clouds blocking the sun prevented us from seeing the brilliance boasted of in guidebooks.
2-07-09
I realize that everybody goes to Agra to visit the Taj Mahal, but we have yet to do this. After eating breakfast at the hotel restaurant, which offers no view of the Taj the close proximity which makes it a prime tourist destination, we headed strait to the bus station so we could visit Fatehpur Sikri. This palace and mosque was built by Emperor Akbar the Great to be the capital of the Mughal Empire. The entire complex was built in sixteen short years, but was lived in for only 14 years. Jahengir, Akbar’s son, moved the capital to Agra almost immediately after Akbar’s death because the water supply was incapable of sustaining the entire court.
When we asked the man at the ticket counter when the next bus would arrive to take us to Fatehpur Sikri, pointing out that the book said a bus came every half hour, a young English man spoke up and said he’d been waiting since 9:30 and no bus had come in all that time. It was about 10:15 and no bus showed up until 10:45 or so. We ended up exploring the sites of the ghost town with Chris, who proved to be entertaining and engaging. His mother is an Anglo-Indian from Goa and his family owns a hotel there, but he’s lived all his life in London and thinks of himself as English. Mom and I both enjoyed his company and we spent the entire day together.
The first place we explored was the mosque and courtyard surrounding it. When Akbar, after years of marriage, had had no child, boy or girl, he consulted the Sufi Sheikh Salim Chishti. Chishti told him he would soon have a son and, when this prophesy came true, Akbar began constructing Fatehpur and the Jami Masjid mosque. When Chishti died, Akbar built his tomb in the mosque courtyard. The white marble tomb stands out from the red sandstone used in the other buildings.
At first we thought we had seen everything after seeing the mosque because it was so big, but we did, luckily, find the Royal Palace as well. It is incredible and I recommend it to anyone and everyone. Nobody who visits Agra should miss the opportunity to see this jewel of a city off the beaten track of tourism. The architecture is exquisite. Akbar had three wives - one Hindu, one Muslim, and one Christian - and each has their own unique palace. Chris made many amusing comments along the lines of, “I don’t know what these people were thinking to desert a place like this. If I was a goatherd living down in the village, I would definitely live here with my goats. The alpha goat could live there, and I would have my mates up for football matches and barbecues on Saturdays over here…” It was very entertaining. I also enjoyed the look on the face of an elderly man when he asked Chris what his job was and Chris replied, “Oh, I’m a beer specialist” with a rather wide grin on his face.
I’m afraid the photos will, once again, have to be used to aid my attempts at describing this extraordinary place. The intricately carved walls and ceilings, the perfectly proportioned buildings, the Parcheesi court surrounding a tank where Akbar played, using beautiful slave girls as the playing pieces, these are things which must be seen, not discussed. And I must warn you that the pictures cannot do justice to this place either.
We left the palace by the wrong exit and ended up on a small road parallel to the main road which was traversed by the much needed buses. However, this accident led to the discovery of one of the old gates leading to the city. Chris and I climbed the steep steps and were rewarded with a beautiful view of the countryside and the crumbling remains of the walls which once protected Akbar’s capital. We then followed a narrow dirt path to the main road, walked back the direction we had come, and caught the bus. The bus then dropped us off at the tourist center that stood about 100 yards from where we had originally encountered the road. I was rather miffed because my feet and knees were hurting by this point, but what can you do? From the tourist center we caught another, extremely crowded bus. We considered waiting for the next bus rather than face the possibility of standing for an hour but had no assurance that there was going to be a “next bus”. A couple of men kindly offered Mom and I their seats though, and I spent the journey in relative comfort chatting with two young women, one from Slovenia and the other from Croatia. Mom and I also had a conversation with two young Indian men who were considering attending college in the States and wanted some advise on where to go. They were worried about anti-Indian hate crimes, but neither Mom nor I thought this to be a problem. We did, however, say to take our thoughts with a grain of salt because we live in Bloomington, a peaceful, liberal, college town and not NYC or Chicago. We even exchanged emails and they may contact us with more specific questions when they are more sure of their intentions.
The day finished with an evening meal in a roof-top restaurant overlooking the Taj. Unfortunately, the sun had already set and the Taj was merely a dark outline against a dark sky. Even so, it was very impressive. Dinner was delicious, possibly because I’d had no lunch and was starving. (I use the term starving very loosely.) After dinner, the three of us went out for beer. This is a new experience for me and I enjoyed the novelty of the excursion.
At some point in the conversation, we began talking about Varnasi and Chris told a rather funny story. When he was in Varanasi, his father and sister back in England had his 15 year old dog put to sleep because she had such bad arthritis. (I know this is not a good start to a funny story, but it gets better.) He was feeling sad and wanted to be alone so, instead of joining a group of tourists he had met the day before he went and sat by himself on the ghats and just looked at the Ganges and remembered his dog. When a bunch of children came up trying to sell something he told them that his dog had just died and he wanted to be left alone. Instead of leaving, they formed a circle around him, expressed their sorrow for him, and tried to cheer him up with their chatter. After a while, he asked why there were dogs and goats walking around in sweaters and T-shirts. (I’d wondered the same thing myself.) “Well, they’re our pets!” cried the children. “We take good care of them. It is winter, they get cold! So we put them in sweaters. We take good care of our pets!” “Well, what about that one?” asked Chris, pointing at a stray. “Oh”, replied the children dismissively. “That just looks funny”, and they all began laughing. I guess children are the same everywhere. I certainly enjoyed forcing my poor dog into a sweater and taking pictures of her some years back.
When we asked the man at the ticket counter when the next bus would arrive to take us to Fatehpur Sikri, pointing out that the book said a bus came every half hour, a young English man spoke up and said he’d been waiting since 9:30 and no bus had come in all that time. It was about 10:15 and no bus showed up until 10:45 or so. We ended up exploring the sites of the ghost town with Chris, who proved to be entertaining and engaging. His mother is an Anglo-Indian from Goa and his family owns a hotel there, but he’s lived all his life in London and thinks of himself as English. Mom and I both enjoyed his company and we spent the entire day together.
The first place we explored was the mosque and courtyard surrounding it. When Akbar, after years of marriage, had had no child, boy or girl, he consulted the Sufi Sheikh Salim Chishti. Chishti told him he would soon have a son and, when this prophesy came true, Akbar began constructing Fatehpur and the Jami Masjid mosque. When Chishti died, Akbar built his tomb in the mosque courtyard. The white marble tomb stands out from the red sandstone used in the other buildings.
At first we thought we had seen everything after seeing the mosque because it was so big, but we did, luckily, find the Royal Palace as well. It is incredible and I recommend it to anyone and everyone. Nobody who visits Agra should miss the opportunity to see this jewel of a city off the beaten track of tourism. The architecture is exquisite. Akbar had three wives - one Hindu, one Muslim, and one Christian - and each has their own unique palace. Chris made many amusing comments along the lines of, “I don’t know what these people were thinking to desert a place like this. If I was a goatherd living down in the village, I would definitely live here with my goats. The alpha goat could live there, and I would have my mates up for football matches and barbecues on Saturdays over here…” It was very entertaining. I also enjoyed the look on the face of an elderly man when he asked Chris what his job was and Chris replied, “Oh, I’m a beer specialist” with a rather wide grin on his face.
I’m afraid the photos will, once again, have to be used to aid my attempts at describing this extraordinary place. The intricately carved walls and ceilings, the perfectly proportioned buildings, the Parcheesi court surrounding a tank where Akbar played, using beautiful slave girls as the playing pieces, these are things which must be seen, not discussed. And I must warn you that the pictures cannot do justice to this place either.
We left the palace by the wrong exit and ended up on a small road parallel to the main road which was traversed by the much needed buses. However, this accident led to the discovery of one of the old gates leading to the city. Chris and I climbed the steep steps and were rewarded with a beautiful view of the countryside and the crumbling remains of the walls which once protected Akbar’s capital. We then followed a narrow dirt path to the main road, walked back the direction we had come, and caught the bus. The bus then dropped us off at the tourist center that stood about 100 yards from where we had originally encountered the road. I was rather miffed because my feet and knees were hurting by this point, but what can you do? From the tourist center we caught another, extremely crowded bus. We considered waiting for the next bus rather than face the possibility of standing for an hour but had no assurance that there was going to be a “next bus”. A couple of men kindly offered Mom and I their seats though, and I spent the journey in relative comfort chatting with two young women, one from Slovenia and the other from Croatia. Mom and I also had a conversation with two young Indian men who were considering attending college in the States and wanted some advise on where to go. They were worried about anti-Indian hate crimes, but neither Mom nor I thought this to be a problem. We did, however, say to take our thoughts with a grain of salt because we live in Bloomington, a peaceful, liberal, college town and not NYC or Chicago. We even exchanged emails and they may contact us with more specific questions when they are more sure of their intentions.
The day finished with an evening meal in a roof-top restaurant overlooking the Taj. Unfortunately, the sun had already set and the Taj was merely a dark outline against a dark sky. Even so, it was very impressive. Dinner was delicious, possibly because I’d had no lunch and was starving. (I use the term starving very loosely.) After dinner, the three of us went out for beer. This is a new experience for me and I enjoyed the novelty of the excursion.
At some point in the conversation, we began talking about Varnasi and Chris told a rather funny story. When he was in Varanasi, his father and sister back in England had his 15 year old dog put to sleep because she had such bad arthritis. (I know this is not a good start to a funny story, but it gets better.) He was feeling sad and wanted to be alone so, instead of joining a group of tourists he had met the day before he went and sat by himself on the ghats and just looked at the Ganges and remembered his dog. When a bunch of children came up trying to sell something he told them that his dog had just died and he wanted to be left alone. Instead of leaving, they formed a circle around him, expressed their sorrow for him, and tried to cheer him up with their chatter. After a while, he asked why there were dogs and goats walking around in sweaters and T-shirts. (I’d wondered the same thing myself.) “Well, they’re our pets!” cried the children. “We take good care of them. It is winter, they get cold! So we put them in sweaters. We take good care of our pets!” “Well, what about that one?” asked Chris, pointing at a stray. “Oh”, replied the children dismissively. “That just looks funny”, and they all began laughing. I guess children are the same everywhere. I certainly enjoyed forcing my poor dog into a sweater and taking pictures of her some years back.
2-06-09
We arose this morning at the horrible hour of 4:30 am. By some undeserved misfortune, our train was scheduled to leave Gaya at 6:00 am. Actually, my body naturally assumed that if I was awake at 4:30 in the morning, it must be because I was having an adventure, so I was wide awake. The taxi drive lulled my senses a bit, but I was then jolted back from the world of dreams when we arrived at the already bustling train station.
When our train pulled into the station we were, of course, beside the wrong car. We hurried down the platform, worried the train would leave without us, but we made it. However, when we got to our seats, they were already occupied and everyone in the compartment was asleep. One of them woke up and we voiced our fear that we were in the wrong car. But no, the seats were merely double booked. The man began waking up everyone around him so they would put their beds up and we could sit down. For about an hour, there were nine people in six seats but three departed at a different station and the six of us who remained fell back asleep.
The train ride was really long-6 am to 10:30 pm. Mom and I read, ate bread and fruit, played cards, and I listened to my iPod, which seems like a blessing from heaven on these long trips. Perhaps that is a bit of an exaggeration, but it does break up the monotony very nicely. I can happily sit for hours listening to music and daydreaming, although the hard seats on Indian trains make this habit hard to sustain.
I am now reading a book called “Rani”, about Rani Lakshmibai of Jhansi. She led her own soldiers into battle against the British in the 1857 Sepoy uprising. And nobody really knows what happened to her; some say she died on horseback, desperately fighting for her country’s freedom; some say she escaped with her young son; some say the woman who escaped was a look-alike. We will see which ending the book goes with. At this point, however, I am reading about her childhood, spent squabbling with her friends and riding horses, and her marriage to the Raja of Jhansi, a forty year old man, when she was just thirteen. I am really enjoying it. She is, as I’m sure you can imagine, quite feisty.
Besides Mom and I, there were four Muslim men from Bangladesh in our compartment. They are quite nice, with decent English, but there’s not that much to really say about them. Everybody shared their food and they borrowed our cards for a while, but that’s pretty much it.
We got off the train in Agra and headed for Hotel Sheela fairly late. An obnoxious taxi driver, when he failed to gain our custom, insisted on riding in our rickshaw with us, babbling the whole time. I found him a bit creepy and extremely shallow, as well as obnoxious. I was very happy to arrive at the hotel and, especially, the hotel restaurant.
When our train pulled into the station we were, of course, beside the wrong car. We hurried down the platform, worried the train would leave without us, but we made it. However, when we got to our seats, they were already occupied and everyone in the compartment was asleep. One of them woke up and we voiced our fear that we were in the wrong car. But no, the seats were merely double booked. The man began waking up everyone around him so they would put their beds up and we could sit down. For about an hour, there were nine people in six seats but three departed at a different station and the six of us who remained fell back asleep.
The train ride was really long-6 am to 10:30 pm. Mom and I read, ate bread and fruit, played cards, and I listened to my iPod, which seems like a blessing from heaven on these long trips. Perhaps that is a bit of an exaggeration, but it does break up the monotony very nicely. I can happily sit for hours listening to music and daydreaming, although the hard seats on Indian trains make this habit hard to sustain.
I am now reading a book called “Rani”, about Rani Lakshmibai of Jhansi. She led her own soldiers into battle against the British in the 1857 Sepoy uprising. And nobody really knows what happened to her; some say she died on horseback, desperately fighting for her country’s freedom; some say she escaped with her young son; some say the woman who escaped was a look-alike. We will see which ending the book goes with. At this point, however, I am reading about her childhood, spent squabbling with her friends and riding horses, and her marriage to the Raja of Jhansi, a forty year old man, when she was just thirteen. I am really enjoying it. She is, as I’m sure you can imagine, quite feisty.
Besides Mom and I, there were four Muslim men from Bangladesh in our compartment. They are quite nice, with decent English, but there’s not that much to really say about them. Everybody shared their food and they borrowed our cards for a while, but that’s pretty much it.
We got off the train in Agra and headed for Hotel Sheela fairly late. An obnoxious taxi driver, when he failed to gain our custom, insisted on riding in our rickshaw with us, babbling the whole time. I found him a bit creepy and extremely shallow, as well as obnoxious. I was very happy to arrive at the hotel and, especially, the hotel restaurant.
2-5-09
Yesterday I was sick so I stayed in bed for most of the day but I did get to finish reading the Diary of Anne Frank. Her ability to stay sane, coherent, and insightful during the years of terror and hiding was incredible. I have joined the scores of people who admire her and find strength in the story of her life.
I am still sick today, but I managed to get out of the hotel for a few hours. After lunch ( a mild soup and salad at the Tibet Om Café) and a little shopping, Mom and I visited the other Japanese Temple and the Chinese Temple, which had been closed by the time we got there the other day. We also saw a huge stone statue of the Buddha. From a distance, it was exquisite, rising up behind the Japanese temple with gardens surrounding it. Unfortunately, a slightly modern style of sculpture could be seen when viewed from nearby. The individual stones which made up the statue had not been smoothed together, so you could see where each stone had been joined. This confused the otherwise beautiful features of the Buddha. The statues of the Buddha’s disciples which surrounded this huge statue were even more modern in style, although I find it difficult to pinpoint exactly what I disliked aside from the fact that the faces did not seem saintly or compassionate.
We also revisited the Thai temple, because it was my favorite. Mom had seen all the temples again yesterday, so she left the choice up to me. While visiting the Thai temple, however, I started to feel sick again so I returned to my bed while Mom went to sit in the shade on the hilltop overlooking the Mahabodhi Temple. I am rather put out by the fact that I am sick, here of all places. I realize I would probably say “here of all places” wherever I was, because I’m in India, but this is my first Buddhist experience and even in the world of Buddhism, this city is both wonderful and unique. I wish I had the energy to simply walk around, visit and revisit all the temples, watch the monks and nuns going about their business in their maroon robes.
I have not talked about the shopping here. It is fabulous! Because we are here for the few days when those relics are on display (which we did not see because of the enormously long line) this relatively small city has turned into a shopping center for beads, jewelry, ornaments, and other traditional Tibetan items. Lining the streets and walkways is stall after stall, selling beautiful, tempting, and almost ridiculously cheap things. Mom and I are stocking up on presents, both for ourselves and for our friends. We walk along, telling ourselves not to buy anything more, not to be impulsive, that we’ve spent enough already, that there will be other places, less touristy, where we can buy the same items. Then we glance down and see strings of, beautifully worked pendants, turquoise coral, lapis lazuli, silver, and gold beads, prayer wheels silk prayer scarves, and much much more. It is practically irresistible. “This one would look beautiful on Aunt Kathryn!” we say, or “Would Hebbah like this necklace?” And before you know it, we are asking the price. I am very happy with my purchases, however, and am very glad we are here for this festival-like atmosphere, for the excitement, and for the beauty.
I am still sick today, but I managed to get out of the hotel for a few hours. After lunch ( a mild soup and salad at the Tibet Om Café) and a little shopping, Mom and I visited the other Japanese Temple and the Chinese Temple, which had been closed by the time we got there the other day. We also saw a huge stone statue of the Buddha. From a distance, it was exquisite, rising up behind the Japanese temple with gardens surrounding it. Unfortunately, a slightly modern style of sculpture could be seen when viewed from nearby. The individual stones which made up the statue had not been smoothed together, so you could see where each stone had been joined. This confused the otherwise beautiful features of the Buddha. The statues of the Buddha’s disciples which surrounded this huge statue were even more modern in style, although I find it difficult to pinpoint exactly what I disliked aside from the fact that the faces did not seem saintly or compassionate.
We also revisited the Thai temple, because it was my favorite. Mom had seen all the temples again yesterday, so she left the choice up to me. While visiting the Thai temple, however, I started to feel sick again so I returned to my bed while Mom went to sit in the shade on the hilltop overlooking the Mahabodhi Temple. I am rather put out by the fact that I am sick, here of all places. I realize I would probably say “here of all places” wherever I was, because I’m in India, but this is my first Buddhist experience and even in the world of Buddhism, this city is both wonderful and unique. I wish I had the energy to simply walk around, visit and revisit all the temples, watch the monks and nuns going about their business in their maroon robes.
I have not talked about the shopping here. It is fabulous! Because we are here for the few days when those relics are on display (which we did not see because of the enormously long line) this relatively small city has turned into a shopping center for beads, jewelry, ornaments, and other traditional Tibetan items. Lining the streets and walkways is stall after stall, selling beautiful, tempting, and almost ridiculously cheap things. Mom and I are stocking up on presents, both for ourselves and for our friends. We walk along, telling ourselves not to buy anything more, not to be impulsive, that we’ve spent enough already, that there will be other places, less touristy, where we can buy the same items. Then we glance down and see strings of, beautifully worked pendants, turquoise coral, lapis lazuli, silver, and gold beads, prayer wheels silk prayer scarves, and much much more. It is practically irresistible. “This one would look beautiful on Aunt Kathryn!” we say, or “Would Hebbah like this necklace?” And before you know it, we are asking the price. I am very happy with my purchases, however, and am very glad we are here for this festival-like atmosphere, for the excitement, and for the beauty.
2-3-09
Today we went on a bicycle rickshaw tour of the temples in Bodhgaya. We toured from 10:30 to 12:00 and still had not finished, but all the temples close at noon so people can eat lunch. However, we did get to see the Thai, Kanyo Tibetan, Daijoko (Japanese) Bhutanese, and Burmese temples plus a beautiful statue of the Buddha in an enclosed courtyard. Of all the temples, the Thai was my favorite, but this does not mean I did not enjoy visiting the others. I will not attempt many descriptions because “a picture is worth a thousand words” and I am going to post pictures as well. But I can say a little. What I noticed most in the thai temple were the colors: the deep blue background both contrasted and complimented the gold Buddha statue. I especially loved the crown the Buddha wore which directed the eye upwards towards heaven. Mom said that the Thai believe there is a direct link between God and every person, like a string coming out of the top of their head and that this style of crown embodies that. She also said that it is considered taboo to touch someone on the very top of their head, because this severs, however momentarily, that link to heaven.
The Japanese temple was notable for its simplicity. While every other temple had colorful paintings, or friezes in the case of the Bhutanese temple, on the walls and decorated pillars supporting the ceiling, the Japanese walls were plain white and the pillars were wood. But because of the plainness of the room, all of my attention was drawn irresistibly to the alter and the statue upon it.
I mentioned the Bhutanese friezes, but they deserve much more. They were exquisite, masterful pieces of art. As we left the temple, I found myself wondering what material had been used; the overall effect was similar to some of the carved walls on Hindu temples, but those are made of stone. The walls of this building could not have supported so much stonework. It did not look or feel like wood. My entirely uninformed guess is that it is made out of plaster, but I would love to see the entire process; the molding, the mounting, the colorful, delicate painting. Everywhere I looked around me, there were moments from the Buddha’s life captured on the walls, and before me was yet another beautiful statue of the Buddha.
We watched a movie about the Partition of Pakistan called (remarkably) “Partition”. It was very depressing. (If you have any intention of seeing it, do not read this next part. I always give away the endings to movies.) The movie centers on a Muslim girl who gets separated from her family during Partition but is repeatedly protected by a Sikh man named Gyan. They eventually get married but then news comes that her family, who she had believed dead, had actually made it to Pakistan. Leaving her husband and son behind, she journeys to Pakistan only to be imprisoned by her brothers who will not let her return to her Sikh husband because of their hatred of the religion of the people who killed their father. Her husband converts to Islam so he can enter Pakistan and rescue her. The climax is at a train station. The girl escapes with the help of her mother, but her brother follows her. Her husband manages to save her but in the process gets pushed in front of a moving train. The movie shows both the hatred and horror of Partition, but also the ability of people to overcome this hatred through basic human compassion. I think I should be a movie critic, or possibly the person who writes the descriptions on the back covers of movies and books. It would be an excellent excuse to watch movies and read books.
We went to dinner at a so-called up-scale restaurant, but neither Mom nor I liked the food very much. I guess we should stick to the budget places in the future; they seem just as good.
The Japanese temple was notable for its simplicity. While every other temple had colorful paintings, or friezes in the case of the Bhutanese temple, on the walls and decorated pillars supporting the ceiling, the Japanese walls were plain white and the pillars were wood. But because of the plainness of the room, all of my attention was drawn irresistibly to the alter and the statue upon it.
I mentioned the Bhutanese friezes, but they deserve much more. They were exquisite, masterful pieces of art. As we left the temple, I found myself wondering what material had been used; the overall effect was similar to some of the carved walls on Hindu temples, but those are made of stone. The walls of this building could not have supported so much stonework. It did not look or feel like wood. My entirely uninformed guess is that it is made out of plaster, but I would love to see the entire process; the molding, the mounting, the colorful, delicate painting. Everywhere I looked around me, there were moments from the Buddha’s life captured on the walls, and before me was yet another beautiful statue of the Buddha.
We watched a movie about the Partition of Pakistan called (remarkably) “Partition”. It was very depressing. (If you have any intention of seeing it, do not read this next part. I always give away the endings to movies.) The movie centers on a Muslim girl who gets separated from her family during Partition but is repeatedly protected by a Sikh man named Gyan. They eventually get married but then news comes that her family, who she had believed dead, had actually made it to Pakistan. Leaving her husband and son behind, she journeys to Pakistan only to be imprisoned by her brothers who will not let her return to her Sikh husband because of their hatred of the religion of the people who killed their father. Her husband converts to Islam so he can enter Pakistan and rescue her. The climax is at a train station. The girl escapes with the help of her mother, but her brother follows her. Her husband manages to save her but in the process gets pushed in front of a moving train. The movie shows both the hatred and horror of Partition, but also the ability of people to overcome this hatred through basic human compassion. I think I should be a movie critic, or possibly the person who writes the descriptions on the back covers of movies and books. It would be an excellent excuse to watch movies and read books.
We went to dinner at a so-called up-scale restaurant, but neither Mom nor I liked the food very much. I guess we should stick to the budget places in the future; they seem just as good.
2-2-09
We woke up extraordinarily late – 11:00 am. It was wonderful. Since it was so late, we almost immediately went out for lunch. We were trying to find the Om café, which was recommended in the Lonely Planet, but got confused and went to the Tibet Om Café. I think our confusion was understandable, but it also turned out to be beneficial. I have no idea why the Tibet Om is not in the lonely planet; the food is delicious and the staff is very nice. I ordered momo and Tibetan steamed bread with honey. I was a bit nervous about the idea of steamed bred, but it was just what I felt like. While it is, in itself, a bit bland, the honey makes it excellent. And the momos were an delicious break from Indian curry. I was beginning to forget what “savory” tastes like.
There are many Buddhist temples here in Bodghgaya, each from a different country. Tomorrow, we will take a bicycle rickshaw around the town and visit the Thai, Bhutanese, Burmese, Chinese, Tibetan, and Japanese temples. I am eagerly looking forward to this architectural and religious tour. After lunch today however, Mom and I simply went to the Mahabodhi Monastery, the monastery surrounding the Bodhi tree, under which the Buddha attained enlightenment. By pure chance and extreme good luck, we are here for the three days out of the year when some Tibetan Buddhist relics are on display. There were thousands of monks wandering around in maroon robes, a testament to the vitality of Tibetan Buddhism.
The Bodhi tree here is, in fact, a sprig of the original tree. Banyans are the type of trees that send out tendrils from many branches. When these tendrils reach the ground, they thicken into new tree trunks, which makes transplanting many banyan trees is easy. The present tree is actually the sprig from the Bodhi tree which was brought to Sri Lanka by Emperor Ashoka’s daughter in the 3rd Century BC. The tree at Saranath, the Deer Park, is also a sprig of this tree.
As Mom and I circled around the stupa and around the tree, I was constantly in awe of the spiritual rigor of the people surrounding me. Old men and women who could barely walk were tottering around, muttering prayers and counting prayer beads. Young monks were making prostration after prostration. There were many boy monks could not have been older than four or five and, while some were playing together and laughing quietly, some were chanting along with their elders, obviously lost in prayer. Both of us were taken aback by the absolute beauty of the place and the people and the chanting. Mom was convinced she had entered Paradise, but I couldn’t help thinking that we weren’t quite there yet. It would only have been paradise if we could perfectly understand the beauty we were witnessing, rather than just being able to appreciate that it was beautiful.
One of the nicest moments for me happened inside the stupa. I was leaving after having greeted the Buddha inside and saw a girl, about my age, in skin-tight jeans and a flashy t-shirt. I automatically dismissed her as some irreverent nobody because of her fashionable clothes but as I glanced up at her face I realized that she was praying just as fervently as the monk standing next to her. It was a good reminder to me not to judge people by their exterior façade and never to assume that I am superior to them because of the clothes I am wearing. After circling the temple once and seeing the Bodhi tree up close, Mom decided to circle everything again, taking as many pictures as she could. I decided that it would be better for me to preserve the beauty of our previous circuit so I sat on a hill overlooking the tree and the temple and the praying monks to wait for her. After some time, she joined me and we sat together in silence for a while before returning to the hotel.
There are many Buddhist temples here in Bodghgaya, each from a different country. Tomorrow, we will take a bicycle rickshaw around the town and visit the Thai, Bhutanese, Burmese, Chinese, Tibetan, and Japanese temples. I am eagerly looking forward to this architectural and religious tour. After lunch today however, Mom and I simply went to the Mahabodhi Monastery, the monastery surrounding the Bodhi tree, under which the Buddha attained enlightenment. By pure chance and extreme good luck, we are here for the three days out of the year when some Tibetan Buddhist relics are on display. There were thousands of monks wandering around in maroon robes, a testament to the vitality of Tibetan Buddhism.
The Bodhi tree here is, in fact, a sprig of the original tree. Banyans are the type of trees that send out tendrils from many branches. When these tendrils reach the ground, they thicken into new tree trunks, which makes transplanting many banyan trees is easy. The present tree is actually the sprig from the Bodhi tree which was brought to Sri Lanka by Emperor Ashoka’s daughter in the 3rd Century BC. The tree at Saranath, the Deer Park, is also a sprig of this tree.
As Mom and I circled around the stupa and around the tree, I was constantly in awe of the spiritual rigor of the people surrounding me. Old men and women who could barely walk were tottering around, muttering prayers and counting prayer beads. Young monks were making prostration after prostration. There were many boy monks could not have been older than four or five and, while some were playing together and laughing quietly, some were chanting along with their elders, obviously lost in prayer. Both of us were taken aback by the absolute beauty of the place and the people and the chanting. Mom was convinced she had entered Paradise, but I couldn’t help thinking that we weren’t quite there yet. It would only have been paradise if we could perfectly understand the beauty we were witnessing, rather than just being able to appreciate that it was beautiful.
One of the nicest moments for me happened inside the stupa. I was leaving after having greeted the Buddha inside and saw a girl, about my age, in skin-tight jeans and a flashy t-shirt. I automatically dismissed her as some irreverent nobody because of her fashionable clothes but as I glanced up at her face I realized that she was praying just as fervently as the monk standing next to her. It was a good reminder to me not to judge people by their exterior façade and never to assume that I am superior to them because of the clothes I am wearing. After circling the temple once and seeing the Bodhi tree up close, Mom decided to circle everything again, taking as many pictures as she could. I decided that it would be better for me to preserve the beauty of our previous circuit so I sat on a hill overlooking the tree and the temple and the praying monks to wait for her. After some time, she joined me and we sat together in silence for a while before returning to the hotel.
2-1-09
Today was the day of separation; Mom and I left Varanasi at 3:00 and Patrick left for Chennai at 11:30 PM. But before we get into the painful part, I will tell a few funny sari anecdotes. In honor of the great, if depressing, day, I decided to wear my beautiful, silk, green and blue sari. I knew it was my third best sari (I wouldn’t travel in my best) but I was ecstatic when I walked out into the sunshine and what I had thought of as green turned into a beautiful greenish gold color. For the occasion, Mom lent me her dark blue belly shirt because I had no sari blouse of my own. It worked perfectly. Add earrings, a set of bangles, my lovely Indian sandles, and I felt like a rani. As I was gliding down the somewhat dirty, staircase, I saw another tourist coming up the stairs towards me. As I shifted my attention from putting one foot in front of the other to smiling benignly at this inferior, but undoubtedly nice, young woman, I slipped and fell down three of the stairs. My benign smile was replaced by an expression of dismay as I scrambled to catch myself, then dissolved entirely into laughter as I, the rumpled rani Eleanor, clambered back to my feet. I have no idea what that woman thought of me.
Despite my misadventure, I wanted to get a picture taken with me in all my finery. It went quite well except for one small detail. When I looked in the picture, my untanned belly was a completely different color than my face and arms. Using the camera, I checked and, sure enough, my pale skin of my stomach in the cold morning light was pure white. No color whatsoever. And upon seeing that picture all my hopes of looking Indian and fitting in disappeared.
Patrick and Dad came with us as we followed the porters back through the alleys of Varanasi. It was incredible how our departure was, on the surface, so similar to our frenzied arrival but because my attitude had changed, I was more or less comfortable. It’s amazing how accustomed I became to Varanasi in one short week.
As we loaded the taxi and climbed in, I tried desperately to memorize the faces of the father and brother I would not see for months. I will miss them desperately. It was especially difficult with Patrick; it felt as if we’d really gotten to know each other again after nearly six weeks of traveling together. I’ve always loved and respected Patrick, but now am forced to leave a friend as well as a brother. I’ve decided, though, that it is well worth having a friend for a brother even if it makes parting more painful.
The train was a mere three hours late and the seats were about as comfortable as our beds. Meaning as hard as a board and distinctly un-comfortable. We were in the Second Class Sleeper, which means there were two benches facing each other and a bed up above. The backs of the benches lift up to make beds as well. Six people are assigned to each cabin, which is fine if everyone agrees on sitting or sleeping. But if two people want to sleep and one doesn’t, the one is out of luck because the bench disappears to make beds. Mom and I found ourselves feeling sorry for Dad and Patrick because, while we felt sore after our 5½ hour ride, they would certainly be in pain after their 36 hour.
Besides us in the compartment were an Indian mother and daughter who didn’t talk to us, a young Japanese man, and an Austrian man who’s age I absolutely could not place. (This was rather disappointing because I enjoy trying to guess people’s ages. All I know for sure is that he’d been to India for the first time 20 years ago; before he said this, I would have put him at around 35, but that seems unlikely although not impossible. In twenty years, I will be 38, so I guess that’s close. Oh well, it’s not really important, just a pet peeve.) The Japanese man was also heading to Bodhgaya. He spent the better part of the train trip diligently studying English for his job. He practiced his conversation skills, which were quite good, with Mom and I for practice and also read a book an English guide to Japan. I thought this was very clever because, as he pointed out, he knew all about Japan, its history, and its monuments so he was able to deduce what was being said while still improving his reading speed and his vocabulary. Maybe I should try something similar, but I cannot think of any subject of which I am an expert. Certainly not US History. Maybe if I contained it to the years surrounding the American Revolution I would progress.
The Austrian fellow was heading to Calcutta. He’s been in India four times and gave us some useful advice about where to go and how to manipulate the system. Hampi was the place he told us to absolutely not miss. We’d already planned on going there but now think we’ll go for 3 days instead of two.
The train arrived around midnight. The poor driver from the hotel at first let us pass him by because he hadn’t been expecting women in traditional clothes, but realized his mistake before it was too late. I was exhausted at this point and was only mildly confused when the taxi slowed down and nearly stopped on a lonely stretch of road. My guard went slightly up, but just after I had decided that the hotel, located on the outskirts of town, had merely turned all of its lights off. Then the driver revived his stalling engine and I realized we had nearly broken down on a lonely stretch of road. I think/hope Mom was more aware than I was.
Despite my misadventure, I wanted to get a picture taken with me in all my finery. It went quite well except for one small detail. When I looked in the picture, my untanned belly was a completely different color than my face and arms. Using the camera, I checked and, sure enough, my pale skin of my stomach in the cold morning light was pure white. No color whatsoever. And upon seeing that picture all my hopes of looking Indian and fitting in disappeared.
Patrick and Dad came with us as we followed the porters back through the alleys of Varanasi. It was incredible how our departure was, on the surface, so similar to our frenzied arrival but because my attitude had changed, I was more or less comfortable. It’s amazing how accustomed I became to Varanasi in one short week.
As we loaded the taxi and climbed in, I tried desperately to memorize the faces of the father and brother I would not see for months. I will miss them desperately. It was especially difficult with Patrick; it felt as if we’d really gotten to know each other again after nearly six weeks of traveling together. I’ve always loved and respected Patrick, but now am forced to leave a friend as well as a brother. I’ve decided, though, that it is well worth having a friend for a brother even if it makes parting more painful.
The train was a mere three hours late and the seats were about as comfortable as our beds. Meaning as hard as a board and distinctly un-comfortable. We were in the Second Class Sleeper, which means there were two benches facing each other and a bed up above. The backs of the benches lift up to make beds as well. Six people are assigned to each cabin, which is fine if everyone agrees on sitting or sleeping. But if two people want to sleep and one doesn’t, the one is out of luck because the bench disappears to make beds. Mom and I found ourselves feeling sorry for Dad and Patrick because, while we felt sore after our 5½ hour ride, they would certainly be in pain after their 36 hour.
Besides us in the compartment were an Indian mother and daughter who didn’t talk to us, a young Japanese man, and an Austrian man who’s age I absolutely could not place. (This was rather disappointing because I enjoy trying to guess people’s ages. All I know for sure is that he’d been to India for the first time 20 years ago; before he said this, I would have put him at around 35, but that seems unlikely although not impossible. In twenty years, I will be 38, so I guess that’s close. Oh well, it’s not really important, just a pet peeve.) The Japanese man was also heading to Bodhgaya. He spent the better part of the train trip diligently studying English for his job. He practiced his conversation skills, which were quite good, with Mom and I for practice and also read a book an English guide to Japan. I thought this was very clever because, as he pointed out, he knew all about Japan, its history, and its monuments so he was able to deduce what was being said while still improving his reading speed and his vocabulary. Maybe I should try something similar, but I cannot think of any subject of which I am an expert. Certainly not US History. Maybe if I contained it to the years surrounding the American Revolution I would progress.
The Austrian fellow was heading to Calcutta. He’s been in India four times and gave us some useful advice about where to go and how to manipulate the system. Hampi was the place he told us to absolutely not miss. We’d already planned on going there but now think we’ll go for 3 days instead of two.
The train arrived around midnight. The poor driver from the hotel at first let us pass him by because he hadn’t been expecting women in traditional clothes, but realized his mistake before it was too late. I was exhausted at this point and was only mildly confused when the taxi slowed down and nearly stopped on a lonely stretch of road. My guard went slightly up, but just after I had decided that the hotel, located on the outskirts of town, had merely turned all of its lights off. Then the driver revived his stalling engine and I realized we had nearly broken down on a lonely stretch of road. I think/hope Mom was more aware than I was.
1-30-09
This morning we got up around 7:30 with plans to meet Alverro at his house between 8:15 and 8:30. (This means to Mom, by the way, that we must be waiting on his doorstep by 8:10, although wait to knock until the appointed time.) There was no time for breakfast because we had to walk down the ghats to get to Alverro’s house. This was Patrick’s first long walk down on the ghats because he’d been working so much. I think he enjoyed it, although he did not walk slowly enough to take it all in and the two youngsters were constantly waiting for their parents. Of course, we all feel our best walking and observing at our own pace and it is more or less impossible to take it all in the first time anyway, and who am I to pass judgment? I am still getting accustomed to Varanasi myself. After four walks one would think I’d be an expert but, sadly, this is not the case. I was rather thrown, personally, when a man called out “Madam, Sir - Snake?” and pulled open a burlap sack to reveal the rather large, sinuous curves of a python’s body. It was probably illegal, but what can you do? I wanted no part in it, anyway! Ugh! I am not particularly fond of snakes although I do feel a certain disgusted fascination, but only if they are safely caged, or on TV, or are small enough to be crushed under my heel should they prove nasty.
The meeting with the Jagadguru of the North was wonderful. Alverro had, in our conversation yesterday, discussed how some successors are vessels which can hold a divine light and pass it on, while others shed a light of their own. To my untrained eye, it seems as though the Jagadguru of Kanchipuram is in the former category while the Jagadguru of the North is in the latter. I do not say this to belittle the Jagadguru of Kanchipuram but rather to impress upon you the greatness of the man I met today. I believe Dad also wrote about this and I am finding it difficult to express in words the joy I felt in my heart upon meeting this man, so I will leave it at that.
In the afternoon, Mom and I went shopping (again – I’m in paradise) and I got to have The Real Bangle Experience! It was just as much fun as I imagined it would be. Mom went first; she had her sari with her, so the shopkeeper matched the bangles perfectly. Mom, after a few tries, ended up with a considerably less ornate set than the one originally presented to her, but it was lovely nonetheless and better suited to her. It is alternately turquoise and gold with two big bangles on either end. My set is much the same, only the main part is orange and silvery-gold and the ends green and gold. This may sound a bit crazy and overly-colorful, but it goes with the orange sari I bought in Kanchipuram, which has green embroidery on it.
The meeting with the Jagadguru of the North was wonderful. Alverro had, in our conversation yesterday, discussed how some successors are vessels which can hold a divine light and pass it on, while others shed a light of their own. To my untrained eye, it seems as though the Jagadguru of Kanchipuram is in the former category while the Jagadguru of the North is in the latter. I do not say this to belittle the Jagadguru of Kanchipuram but rather to impress upon you the greatness of the man I met today. I believe Dad also wrote about this and I am finding it difficult to express in words the joy I felt in my heart upon meeting this man, so I will leave it at that.
In the afternoon, Mom and I went shopping (again – I’m in paradise) and I got to have The Real Bangle Experience! It was just as much fun as I imagined it would be. Mom went first; she had her sari with her, so the shopkeeper matched the bangles perfectly. Mom, after a few tries, ended up with a considerably less ornate set than the one originally presented to her, but it was lovely nonetheless and better suited to her. It is alternately turquoise and gold with two big bangles on either end. My set is much the same, only the main part is orange and silvery-gold and the ends green and gold. This may sound a bit crazy and overly-colorful, but it goes with the orange sari I bought in Kanchipuram, which has green embroidery on it.
1-29-09
We got up extraordinarily early this morning. Dad had arranged to meet a boatman at 5:50 so he knocked on our door at the ridiculous time of 5:30. Patrick wasn’t feeling well, dinner last night didn’t agree with him, so he decided to give the boat a miss. Maybe he’d have come if it wasn’t such a pain to get out of bed, I don’t know. I was still very sleepy when we got down to our boat, but the chilly air on the Ganages soon woke me up. Mom had cleverly brought her shawl along, so I scrunched up next to her and we shared it.
I was surprised at the number of people, Indians and tourists alike, who were already on the river at such an early hour. It was nice to see the buildings, palaces, and temples in the early morning light and from the safe cleanliness of a boat. After about a ½ hour, we tuned back, so I was facing the opposite bank and the rising sun rather than the city. Mom and Dad kept craning their heads around to see Varanasi, which bothered me a bit because we had come to see the sunrise which only lasted for a while and not the city which had been there for thousands of years; I happily watched the red sun rise over the treetops and light up the silver Ganges and turn her orange and yellow and pink.
After the boatride, which lasted about an hour all together, I went back to bed for a while. I think this is entirely understandable, considering my age. All teenagers need their beauty sleep and I am no exception; no teasing is allowed.
At a more reasonable hour, I woke up for the second time, breakfasted, and took off with Mom and Dad again into the main streets of Varanasi. Our destinations were Baa Baa Black Sheep- a wool and silk shop, The Open Hand – a tourist memento sort of place, and Indica Books – a well recommended bookstore with an interesting owner. We went to Indica Books first because it was the closest, but the owner was not there. We were told he would be there in a ½ hour or so and so took off for Baa Baa Black Sheep. But, sue to some confusion in sign posting, the shop was farther away than we had originally thought. (There was a sign with 2 arrows on it, on saying 50 meters and the other saying 1 Km. Mom and Dad thought this meant there were two shops, one of which was only 50 m away. I thought it meant you had to go 50 m one way and then turn and go 1 km another way, but didn’t say anything for some reason. It turned out I was right, so we went back to Indica books without having visited any shops.)
I was busy looking for children’s versions of the Ramayana and the Mahabharata when Alvero, the owner came in, so I didn’t join my parents immediately in their conversation. When I was little, I had a few copies of these, along with stories of other Hindu saints. They were well written and beautifully illustrated and were some of my absolute favorite books. Which means that I read them so many times that half the pages are ripped and torn and entire books are in general states of disrepair. Unfortunately, I found no replacements, so I walked up the stairs to Alverro’s office. We had a very interesting conversation, touching on many topics. At the end, one of my parents, I think Mom, asked if there was anything in Varanasi we absolutely couldn’t miss. After a moments hesitation, Alverro invited us to accompany him to meet the Jagadguru of the North the following day. If you don’t already know this, Sri Sankara sent four of his disciples to teach in the four different directions: North, South, East, and West. Each of those disciples had a successor, who had a successor, etc. until the present day Jagadgurus came to occupy their function. The Jagadguru of Kanchipuram, the one we met earlier in our trip, is the successor of Sankara himself. This is a very basic outline and there are some controversial issues which I do not understand, so I will not go into any more details.
After Indica Books, we went to Baa Baa Black Sheep. (I had a great deal of trouble typing that. Too many B’s and A’s) Mom and I wanted to look at silk and synthetic scarves because they make such good presents. Actually, only I looked at the synthetic ones, but I am a poor college student and Mom is not. In the end though, I, the poor college student, spent more than Mom. She got two beautiful, large, silk scarves for Rs. 1000 and I got 1 large silk scarf, 1 small silk scarf, and four small synthetic scarves for Rs. 1100. Personally, I think I got the better deal, because the synthetic ones are still beautiful even if they aren’t “the Real McCoy”.
After scarf shopping, we walked to the Open Hand, but didn’t purchase anything. While tourist shops are convenient and have lots of wonderful knick-knacks tou collect as souvenirs, they are ridiculously over-priced. We considered buying cappocinos in their café, but decided to get even that elsewhere. Elsewhere turned out to be the Palace on the Ganges Restaurant. It would have been quite delightful except for the lack of cappocinos and the abundance of flies. I had a sweet lime soda, which seemed to attract even more flies. By the time we left, there were at least fifty flies spread across three tables. I know I sometimes have a tendancy towards exaggeration, but in this case it is completely unnecessary to spice up the the story. Fifty is a good estimate.
I forgot to mention, we ate lunch at the Bread of Life and it was amazingly scrumptious. I have not tasted such good food in a long time and I thouroughly recommend it to anyone visiting India, let alone Varanasi!
I was surprised at the number of people, Indians and tourists alike, who were already on the river at such an early hour. It was nice to see the buildings, palaces, and temples in the early morning light and from the safe cleanliness of a boat. After about a ½ hour, we tuned back, so I was facing the opposite bank and the rising sun rather than the city. Mom and Dad kept craning their heads around to see Varanasi, which bothered me a bit because we had come to see the sunrise which only lasted for a while and not the city which had been there for thousands of years; I happily watched the red sun rise over the treetops and light up the silver Ganges and turn her orange and yellow and pink.
After the boatride, which lasted about an hour all together, I went back to bed for a while. I think this is entirely understandable, considering my age. All teenagers need their beauty sleep and I am no exception; no teasing is allowed.
At a more reasonable hour, I woke up for the second time, breakfasted, and took off with Mom and Dad again into the main streets of Varanasi. Our destinations were Baa Baa Black Sheep- a wool and silk shop, The Open Hand – a tourist memento sort of place, and Indica Books – a well recommended bookstore with an interesting owner. We went to Indica Books first because it was the closest, but the owner was not there. We were told he would be there in a ½ hour or so and so took off for Baa Baa Black Sheep. But, sue to some confusion in sign posting, the shop was farther away than we had originally thought. (There was a sign with 2 arrows on it, on saying 50 meters and the other saying 1 Km. Mom and Dad thought this meant there were two shops, one of which was only 50 m away. I thought it meant you had to go 50 m one way and then turn and go 1 km another way, but didn’t say anything for some reason. It turned out I was right, so we went back to Indica books without having visited any shops.)
I was busy looking for children’s versions of the Ramayana and the Mahabharata when Alvero, the owner came in, so I didn’t join my parents immediately in their conversation. When I was little, I had a few copies of these, along with stories of other Hindu saints. They were well written and beautifully illustrated and were some of my absolute favorite books. Which means that I read them so many times that half the pages are ripped and torn and entire books are in general states of disrepair. Unfortunately, I found no replacements, so I walked up the stairs to Alverro’s office. We had a very interesting conversation, touching on many topics. At the end, one of my parents, I think Mom, asked if there was anything in Varanasi we absolutely couldn’t miss. After a moments hesitation, Alverro invited us to accompany him to meet the Jagadguru of the North the following day. If you don’t already know this, Sri Sankara sent four of his disciples to teach in the four different directions: North, South, East, and West. Each of those disciples had a successor, who had a successor, etc. until the present day Jagadgurus came to occupy their function. The Jagadguru of Kanchipuram, the one we met earlier in our trip, is the successor of Sankara himself. This is a very basic outline and there are some controversial issues which I do not understand, so I will not go into any more details.
After Indica Books, we went to Baa Baa Black Sheep. (I had a great deal of trouble typing that. Too many B’s and A’s) Mom and I wanted to look at silk and synthetic scarves because they make such good presents. Actually, only I looked at the synthetic ones, but I am a poor college student and Mom is not. In the end though, I, the poor college student, spent more than Mom. She got two beautiful, large, silk scarves for Rs. 1000 and I got 1 large silk scarf, 1 small silk scarf, and four small synthetic scarves for Rs. 1100. Personally, I think I got the better deal, because the synthetic ones are still beautiful even if they aren’t “the Real McCoy”.
After scarf shopping, we walked to the Open Hand, but didn’t purchase anything. While tourist shops are convenient and have lots of wonderful knick-knacks tou collect as souvenirs, they are ridiculously over-priced. We considered buying cappocinos in their café, but decided to get even that elsewhere. Elsewhere turned out to be the Palace on the Ganges Restaurant. It would have been quite delightful except for the lack of cappocinos and the abundance of flies. I had a sweet lime soda, which seemed to attract even more flies. By the time we left, there were at least fifty flies spread across three tables. I know I sometimes have a tendancy towards exaggeration, but in this case it is completely unnecessary to spice up the the story. Fifty is a good estimate.
I forgot to mention, we ate lunch at the Bread of Life and it was amazingly scrumptious. I have not tasted such good food in a long time and I thouroughly recommend it to anyone visiting India, let alone Varanasi!
1-28-09
Today I went for another walk along the ghats with Mom at around 7:00 am. It is, I think, a good time to go. It was nice and cool. In fact, Mom wore her shawl. I had originally thought it a bit silly of her to bring her shawl, but it seems to come in handy. People, with the exception of most teenagers, seem to be happier in the morning. I had a fantastic time and am determined to repeat the experience tomorrow. To tell the truth, I have never been particularly attracted to cities, preferring the lonely magnificence of nature to any manmade beauty. But there is something here in Varanasi that calls to my heart. Varanasi, with its holy, polluted river, its narrow crowded streets, its poor begging in the shadows of dilapidated palaces – remnants to a faded, but not exterminated, glory. Varanasi, in a sense, is India, the land of differences, condensed into a single city.
Enough of me waxing poetic! I’m not very good at it anyway. In the afternoon, Mom and I decided to go sari shopping and Dad tagged along. He actually took the lead and I had to slow down my pace considerably to avoid tripping over his heels. I was not always successful in my attempts. We’d asked one of the hotel employees what a good shop was and he recommended a place called Jalan and gave us directions. For some reason, we assumed it would be located on the right hand side of the road (the closer side) even though he had not specified this. But after walking for some ways and not finding it, we decided to return on the left hand side, just in case, but were not very hopeful. As we were walking along, I was keeping my eye out for signs, I spotted it. Jalan, written only in Hindi script. “There it is!” I said gleefully, pointing at the sign. Dad asked me how I knew. “It says it there, on the sign.” And I started tracing the letters in the air while spelling out “J, A, L, A, N.” I was quite pleased with myself. You see, in South India, they so not speak or write Hindi, so I could not put to use what I had learned in my Hindi class. So I was pleased to be in a place where my hard earned knowledge could be used and, of course, admired. (Actually, it was not a very difficult class, although it was informative, and I don’t really care that much about admiration, although it’s nice once in a while.) Mom wanted to get a Benares silk sari as a present for somebody (I won’t say who) but by the time we had finally decided on the nicest sari for the best price, Mom had fallen in love with the sari in question. I’ll admit that it is very nice, although not my style. So we bought the sari and Mom has put off until later the question of which sari – the one from Benares or the one from Kanchipuram – to give and which to keep. I also wanted to buy a few synthetic saris, also as presents, but Dad was a bit antsy. I was a little put out because it was supposed to be a shopping spree for Mom and I with him tagging along, not leading, but I’d had fun anyway. We can always go back.
When Dad discovered that Mom still had to be measured by a tailor, and that the tailor was not in the same building, he went home. Or back to the hotel, rather. We still have a few days together. After Mom was finished being measured, we wlked back to the main street and perused a few stalls. I got a set of green glass bangles and two packets of bindis, but was not entirely satisfied. You see, I want the real Bangle Experience. I went to a lecture last semester called India and the Art of Modern Dress, or something like that, which was about how Indian women present themselves and how they can display their individuality while still adhering to cultural norms and traditions. One example given was about bangles, how the bangles can be sparkly or plain, one solid color or embellished with gold or silver, how a woman could wear many small bangles that jingle a lot or two large ones that remain quite while still being brilliant. The professor also told about her own experience bangle shopping. She got to mix and match and try lots of different colors and textures and qualities until she found just the right combination. It sounds like fun, so I will try to go bangle shopping soon. I guess you have to actually venture into a real store instead of merely visiting the street vendors.
Enough of me waxing poetic! I’m not very good at it anyway. In the afternoon, Mom and I decided to go sari shopping and Dad tagged along. He actually took the lead and I had to slow down my pace considerably to avoid tripping over his heels. I was not always successful in my attempts. We’d asked one of the hotel employees what a good shop was and he recommended a place called Jalan and gave us directions. For some reason, we assumed it would be located on the right hand side of the road (the closer side) even though he had not specified this. But after walking for some ways and not finding it, we decided to return on the left hand side, just in case, but were not very hopeful. As we were walking along, I was keeping my eye out for signs, I spotted it. Jalan, written only in Hindi script. “There it is!” I said gleefully, pointing at the sign. Dad asked me how I knew. “It says it there, on the sign.” And I started tracing the letters in the air while spelling out “J, A, L, A, N.” I was quite pleased with myself. You see, in South India, they so not speak or write Hindi, so I could not put to use what I had learned in my Hindi class. So I was pleased to be in a place where my hard earned knowledge could be used and, of course, admired. (Actually, it was not a very difficult class, although it was informative, and I don’t really care that much about admiration, although it’s nice once in a while.) Mom wanted to get a Benares silk sari as a present for somebody (I won’t say who) but by the time we had finally decided on the nicest sari for the best price, Mom had fallen in love with the sari in question. I’ll admit that it is very nice, although not my style. So we bought the sari and Mom has put off until later the question of which sari – the one from Benares or the one from Kanchipuram – to give and which to keep. I also wanted to buy a few synthetic saris, also as presents, but Dad was a bit antsy. I was a little put out because it was supposed to be a shopping spree for Mom and I with him tagging along, not leading, but I’d had fun anyway. We can always go back.
When Dad discovered that Mom still had to be measured by a tailor, and that the tailor was not in the same building, he went home. Or back to the hotel, rather. We still have a few days together. After Mom was finished being measured, we wlked back to the main street and perused a few stalls. I got a set of green glass bangles and two packets of bindis, but was not entirely satisfied. You see, I want the real Bangle Experience. I went to a lecture last semester called India and the Art of Modern Dress, or something like that, which was about how Indian women present themselves and how they can display their individuality while still adhering to cultural norms and traditions. One example given was about bangles, how the bangles can be sparkly or plain, one solid color or embellished with gold or silver, how a woman could wear many small bangles that jingle a lot or two large ones that remain quite while still being brilliant. The professor also told about her own experience bangle shopping. She got to mix and match and try lots of different colors and textures and qualities until she found just the right combination. It sounds like fun, so I will try to go bangle shopping soon. I guess you have to actually venture into a real store instead of merely visiting the street vendors.
1-27-09
I woke up late this morning and continued to laze around for a while. I finished my book “Nightrunners of Bengal”, took a long shower until all the hot water was gone, and began reading “The Diary of Anne Frank”. I’ve begun keeping my book in my purse so I can read it while we wait for meals. There is a shockingly long amount of time between when you order and when you receive your food. I don’t know why this is, but there are very few exceptions to the rule.
In the afternoon, I walked along the ghats with Mom. After a long discussion, Dad and I decided that ghat must mean stair, because there are so many stairs going down to the Ganges and because there is also a mountain range called the Western Ghats in south India, so it must mean stair, or something similar. It wouldn’t make sense to have a mountain range called the “Western waterfront property” or some such.
The ghats are a world in themselves. There are about 80 ghats bordering the Ganges and each has its own name and serves a purpose. There is the big Burning Ghat and the little Burning Ghat where people get cremated. I passed by the little one, but the big one was in the other direction and I didn’t quite feel up to visiting it. 200-300 corpses are burned there daily. There is also the Dhobi (laundryman’s) ghat, the Meer Ghat where we are staying, and the Raja Ghat, adorned with many impressive but dilapidated palaces and havelis.
At any and all ghats, you will find women of all ages, from three to sixty, selling offering bowls with flowers and a candle to put into the river for a blessing and men crying “Madame! Boat, Madame?” There are lots of children flying kites, and probably you will see a group of boys playing Cricket. Some ghats are remarkably crowded and turn into a sort of marketplace while some are almost entirely empty. It is difficult to take it all in, so I will return tomorrow and perhaps be able to arrange and deliver my thoughts better then.
In the afternoon, I walked along the ghats with Mom. After a long discussion, Dad and I decided that ghat must mean stair, because there are so many stairs going down to the Ganges and because there is also a mountain range called the Western Ghats in south India, so it must mean stair, or something similar. It wouldn’t make sense to have a mountain range called the “Western waterfront property” or some such.
The ghats are a world in themselves. There are about 80 ghats bordering the Ganges and each has its own name and serves a purpose. There is the big Burning Ghat and the little Burning Ghat where people get cremated. I passed by the little one, but the big one was in the other direction and I didn’t quite feel up to visiting it. 200-300 corpses are burned there daily. There is also the Dhobi (laundryman’s) ghat, the Meer Ghat where we are staying, and the Raja Ghat, adorned with many impressive but dilapidated palaces and havelis.
At any and all ghats, you will find women of all ages, from three to sixty, selling offering bowls with flowers and a candle to put into the river for a blessing and men crying “Madame! Boat, Madame?” There are lots of children flying kites, and probably you will see a group of boys playing Cricket. Some ghats are remarkably crowded and turn into a sort of marketplace while some are almost entirely empty. It is difficult to take it all in, so I will return tomorrow and perhaps be able to arrange and deliver my thoughts better then.
1-26-09
Dad still wasn’t feeling well this morning but he wanted some bread and fruit juice, which was an improvement on eating nothing. Patrick and I set out to find some, but bread is surprisingly difficult to find. When we did find a loaf, it was the of the cheap wonderbread variety. Beggers can’t be choosers, I guess. Actually that’s not true. Beggars always seem to choose us! And sometimes if you give them a small coin, Rs. 2 for example, they scowl at you and immediately hold out their hand for more!
When we got tour flight, the attendant said that there was no record of our ticket. When, after much careful checking, nothing turned up we decided that the travel agent in Kumily had either had some computer malfunction or had stolen our money. Mom and I were inclined to believe the former while Dad and Patrick thought the latter possibility more likely. We had no other option but to buy a new set of plane tickets, but Mom and I will return to Kumily when we go back to Kerala and pay a visit to the notorious agent.
We got to Varanasi and were driven along the main streets by a taxi. But our hotel is right on the ghats (by the Ganges) and the streets, if they can be called streets, are too small for rickshaws, let alone taxis. So when the taxi could go no farther, we were met by five porters from our hotel. Without more than a houdy-do, they grabbed our suitcases, tossed them onto their shoulders, and started jogging through the ever-narrowing alleys of Varanasi. I was hard put to keep up, stare around myself as I always do in a new place, avoid both cows and cow patties, and make sure I had not lost any family members by the roadside. There were betel stains all over some walls, making the entire streets look like murder sites. Betel nuts, a mildly soporific drug, are popularly chewed by Indians, especially in Varanasi. It is a rather disgusting habit that involves the constant spitting of red juice and stained teath. Betel may encourage a person to smile more, but it also ruins the smile.
After chasing after the porters for a while, we arrived at Alka Hotel. Patrick and I sat with the bags while Mom and Dad walked up to the third floor to check that our rooms were satisfactory. Mom came down with a disappointed look on her face, but there was little we could do at that point. We were completely lost, had no idea where else to go, and had five heavy suitcases. So we took the rooms. Dad had booked one Rs. 1500 and oneRs. 650 room. The fancy one for him and mom in their last week together, and the budget one for Patrick and I. But the hotel manager had thought we would like to be next door to eachother and had changed the booking to one 1350 room and one 750 room. I suppose he thought it was alright because it was about the same amount of money total, but no one was happy. Mom was disappointed and Patrick and I were quite angry. Our room was both tiny and dirty. Mom had warned me that she and Dad would get the nicer room, but I had had no idea it would be this different. And she hadn’t told Patrick anything. Eventually we got things sorted out. Mom and Dad got the Rs. 1500 room which was still, luckily, available and Patrick and I moved into the 1350 room. So it worked out in the end.
Or so I thought. Mom still looked as though she were about to cry at dinner. We’d tried venturing out of the hotel to find a recommended resteraunt, except Dad who still felt sick, but the twisty-turny streets, the dirt, the crowds of people, and the rumors of Varanasi being dangerous after nightfall soon convinced us to turn back. We ate dinner in the hotel restaurant instead.
Despite everything, I was unexpectedly happy. I had had no great hopes for Varanasi, as Mom had. I merely saw it as the next stage in our journey. Yes, I knew that it is the oldest living city in the world, that it is one of India’s biggest pilgrim sites, that the Ganges was a sacred river, but I still had not really envisioned what it would be like. When we got there, and started running through the narrow streets, I decided that this was the Real India – India as it would have been a hundred years ago. Of all motor vehicles, only motorcycles and scooters could get down the alleyways. I felt as though this were a prime place for an adventure. Even our nerve-racking restaurant excursion only made me more excited. And so, as we ate dinner and watched the people bathing and washing their clothes in the Ganges, I was my usual, chatty, cheerful self.
When we got tour flight, the attendant said that there was no record of our ticket. When, after much careful checking, nothing turned up we decided that the travel agent in Kumily had either had some computer malfunction or had stolen our money. Mom and I were inclined to believe the former while Dad and Patrick thought the latter possibility more likely. We had no other option but to buy a new set of plane tickets, but Mom and I will return to Kumily when we go back to Kerala and pay a visit to the notorious agent.
We got to Varanasi and were driven along the main streets by a taxi. But our hotel is right on the ghats (by the Ganges) and the streets, if they can be called streets, are too small for rickshaws, let alone taxis. So when the taxi could go no farther, we were met by five porters from our hotel. Without more than a houdy-do, they grabbed our suitcases, tossed them onto their shoulders, and started jogging through the ever-narrowing alleys of Varanasi. I was hard put to keep up, stare around myself as I always do in a new place, avoid both cows and cow patties, and make sure I had not lost any family members by the roadside. There were betel stains all over some walls, making the entire streets look like murder sites. Betel nuts, a mildly soporific drug, are popularly chewed by Indians, especially in Varanasi. It is a rather disgusting habit that involves the constant spitting of red juice and stained teath. Betel may encourage a person to smile more, but it also ruins the smile.
After chasing after the porters for a while, we arrived at Alka Hotel. Patrick and I sat with the bags while Mom and Dad walked up to the third floor to check that our rooms were satisfactory. Mom came down with a disappointed look on her face, but there was little we could do at that point. We were completely lost, had no idea where else to go, and had five heavy suitcases. So we took the rooms. Dad had booked one Rs. 1500 and oneRs. 650 room. The fancy one for him and mom in their last week together, and the budget one for Patrick and I. But the hotel manager had thought we would like to be next door to eachother and had changed the booking to one 1350 room and one 750 room. I suppose he thought it was alright because it was about the same amount of money total, but no one was happy. Mom was disappointed and Patrick and I were quite angry. Our room was both tiny and dirty. Mom had warned me that she and Dad would get the nicer room, but I had had no idea it would be this different. And she hadn’t told Patrick anything. Eventually we got things sorted out. Mom and Dad got the Rs. 1500 room which was still, luckily, available and Patrick and I moved into the 1350 room. So it worked out in the end.
Or so I thought. Mom still looked as though she were about to cry at dinner. We’d tried venturing out of the hotel to find a recommended resteraunt, except Dad who still felt sick, but the twisty-turny streets, the dirt, the crowds of people, and the rumors of Varanasi being dangerous after nightfall soon convinced us to turn back. We ate dinner in the hotel restaurant instead.
Despite everything, I was unexpectedly happy. I had had no great hopes for Varanasi, as Mom had. I merely saw it as the next stage in our journey. Yes, I knew that it is the oldest living city in the world, that it is one of India’s biggest pilgrim sites, that the Ganges was a sacred river, but I still had not really envisioned what it would be like. When we got there, and started running through the narrow streets, I decided that this was the Real India – India as it would have been a hundred years ago. Of all motor vehicles, only motorcycles and scooters could get down the alleyways. I felt as though this were a prime place for an adventure. Even our nerve-racking restaurant excursion only made me more excited. And so, as we ate dinner and watched the people bathing and washing their clothes in the Ganges, I was my usual, chatty, cheerful self.
1-25-09
Today is exactly a month since we left, but not a month since we got here. I’ll celebrate in two days.We had an excellent breakfast today. It was both delicious and entertaining. While eating our onion omelets and toast, we started talking to Mr. Walton’s wife and daughters. The elder daughter is 21 and just finished her degree in finances. The 19 year old daughter is currently enrolled in an all-girls college. She laughingly said that her mother had decided that a girl of her disposition should not be around too many boys. She is very outgoing and cheerful; apparently her sister is considered the responsible, trusted one. Mom joked that maybe I would do well at an all-girls college as well. Personally, I disagree.
We drove to the airport, which was a surprisingly long way. We didn’t notice at first that the airplane maker on the map had an arrow and the words 28 km written next to it. Dad wasn’t feeling at all well and when Mom took his temperature it was around 102 degrees Fahrenheit. There wasn’t much we could do on a plane though.
We got into Delhi a little before midnight and called a hotel. The rooms weren’t great, but it was only for one night.
We drove to the airport, which was a surprisingly long way. We didn’t notice at first that the airplane maker on the map had an arrow and the words 28 km written next to it. Dad wasn’t feeling at all well and when Mom took his temperature it was around 102 degrees Fahrenheit. There wasn’t much we could do on a plane though.
We got into Delhi a little before midnight and called a hotel. The rooms weren’t great, but it was only for one night.
1-24-09
I got up early this morning. Really early. 5:30 early. Dad had promised me that if I got up by six we could watch the sunrise down by the fishing nets and watch all the non-tourists beginning their day. But when I knocked on his door, he wasn’t awake! You see, he hadn’t really expected me to go through with my part of the bargain. It was very strange to wait for Dad. I never get up before him! After knocking three times and whispering through the open window, I was leaning against the wall trying to reassess my next plan of action. Just then I hear Dad saying “Patrick, wake up; there’s someone standing outside our window!” I reassured him (Patrick had not, in fact, woken up) and reminded him of his promise. A few minutes later, we were off. We got some coffee from a stand by the docks and walked around for a bit. We were so early that the no one was even fishing yet. After a while, things go going. We even got invited up on a pier to see how things got done. It’s hard to explain. The nets, of Chinese design and introduced to India in the time of Kublai Khan, are simply enormous. It is hard to explain exactly how they work, but I can say that the weight of the net is balanced by about a dozen boulders, each weighing 800 kilos. The fisherman change the boulders depending on whether it is high tide or low tide. None of the nets are owned by the fishermen and when they sell their catch in the market, 30% goes to the owner and 70% is split among the four or five men working the net. Because all of the owners are Christian, the only holiday the fishermen get is Good Friday. Other than that, the work seven days a week, six hours a day (the time changes depending on the tide) and get no days off – not Hindu festivals, not even Christmas.
After we’d seen how things work, the men let dad and I have a go. It was lots of fun, but hard work and I imagine it would get rather monotonous day after day. But they all seemed really happy. Dad gave them Rs 150 when they asked for a donation, and then we took off.
After everyone else had rise and breakfasted, Mom and Dad and I went exploring downtown. Before we got to any of the tourist sites, we spied a little oil shop. Dad expressed an interest in the oude oil, so Mom and I happily trouped inside as well. In the end, Mom and I bought a bunch of perfumes as presents and Dad didn’t get anything at all. By the end, he was itching to leave. We then visited the Matencherry Palace, also known as the Dutch Palace. It was actually built by the Portuguese as a gift the Maharaja, but the Dutch refurbished it and somehow got the credit for all of it. Unfortunately, we didn’t realize until after we’d left that there was a whole part that we had not explored. What we did see, however, was both impressive and interesting. There were a few palanquins on display; they are the teensy boxes in which noble women were carried when they had to leave the palace. They weren’t built for comfort! The walls in one room were simply covered in friezes. The entire room was dedicated to telling the story of the Ramayana. I don’t imagine there was ever much furniture or other decorations in that room; it was decorated enough. Another room had portraits of all the royalty and Dewans (chief ministers) of Kochi. I enjoyed looking at all their faces and at how their clothes varied from austere to sumptuous. Beneath each portrait was a timeline showing what was happening in Kochi, in India, and in the world during the rule of each man. It was nice to have things put in perspective.
The Jain temple was closed when we got there, so after lunch, Dad headed home and Mom and I found (eventually) a city bus to take us to the next town to buy a violin. We planned on spending Rs. 2000-5000 ($40-100). The first violin I tried was Rs. 2500. It was horrible. Disgusting. Constantly out of tune. Tinny. Awful. The bow was worse. It was warped, had no rosin, and couldn’t be tightened or loosened. I was a bit discouraged, but perservered. The next violin was a slight improvement. I finally found a halfway decent (for $50) violin on try #6. After I was more or less satisfied, we tried one last violin for Rs. 5000, but decided to stay with the Rs. 2500 one.
Despite the quality of my new violin, I really enjoyed bing able to play again. I got back to the hotel and ran though a few Irish tunes, the Monti Czardas, Meadowlands, Preludium and Allegro, and parts of the Bruch Concerto. It was fun, even though my violin and my lack of practice combined to create something rather less than that ideal sound we call ‘music’. Ah well. It’s a good for fiddling if not concertos and I’m sure it will get me through my month of lessons in Kerala.
That evening, Mr. Lubin, the local violin teacher, came over to the Waltons and I played a bit with him and his son. It was fun, if very out of tune. Mr. Lubin, who only began learning the violin five years ago, is very musical but has a lot to learn technically. The only part that really bothered me was when one duet was played under tempo. I know what everybody is thinking. “There goes Eleanor, ignoring the tempo markings and rushing through everything!” But this already slow piece dragged on so much that the beat disappeared. I’m not exaggerating, I promise. All in all, though, I had a good time. Both Lubin and his son were very nice and I enjoyed basking in the admiration of all, especially Lubin’s son.
After we’d seen how things work, the men let dad and I have a go. It was lots of fun, but hard work and I imagine it would get rather monotonous day after day. But they all seemed really happy. Dad gave them Rs 150 when they asked for a donation, and then we took off.
After everyone else had rise and breakfasted, Mom and Dad and I went exploring downtown. Before we got to any of the tourist sites, we spied a little oil shop. Dad expressed an interest in the oude oil, so Mom and I happily trouped inside as well. In the end, Mom and I bought a bunch of perfumes as presents and Dad didn’t get anything at all. By the end, he was itching to leave. We then visited the Matencherry Palace, also known as the Dutch Palace. It was actually built by the Portuguese as a gift the Maharaja, but the Dutch refurbished it and somehow got the credit for all of it. Unfortunately, we didn’t realize until after we’d left that there was a whole part that we had not explored. What we did see, however, was both impressive and interesting. There were a few palanquins on display; they are the teensy boxes in which noble women were carried when they had to leave the palace. They weren’t built for comfort! The walls in one room were simply covered in friezes. The entire room was dedicated to telling the story of the Ramayana. I don’t imagine there was ever much furniture or other decorations in that room; it was decorated enough. Another room had portraits of all the royalty and Dewans (chief ministers) of Kochi. I enjoyed looking at all their faces and at how their clothes varied from austere to sumptuous. Beneath each portrait was a timeline showing what was happening in Kochi, in India, and in the world during the rule of each man. It was nice to have things put in perspective.
The Jain temple was closed when we got there, so after lunch, Dad headed home and Mom and I found (eventually) a city bus to take us to the next town to buy a violin. We planned on spending Rs. 2000-5000 ($40-100). The first violin I tried was Rs. 2500. It was horrible. Disgusting. Constantly out of tune. Tinny. Awful. The bow was worse. It was warped, had no rosin, and couldn’t be tightened or loosened. I was a bit discouraged, but perservered. The next violin was a slight improvement. I finally found a halfway decent (for $50) violin on try #6. After I was more or less satisfied, we tried one last violin for Rs. 5000, but decided to stay with the Rs. 2500 one.
Despite the quality of my new violin, I really enjoyed bing able to play again. I got back to the hotel and ran though a few Irish tunes, the Monti Czardas, Meadowlands, Preludium and Allegro, and parts of the Bruch Concerto. It was fun, even though my violin and my lack of practice combined to create something rather less than that ideal sound we call ‘music’. Ah well. It’s a good for fiddling if not concertos and I’m sure it will get me through my month of lessons in Kerala.
That evening, Mr. Lubin, the local violin teacher, came over to the Waltons and I played a bit with him and his son. It was fun, if very out of tune. Mr. Lubin, who only began learning the violin five years ago, is very musical but has a lot to learn technically. The only part that really bothered me was when one duet was played under tempo. I know what everybody is thinking. “There goes Eleanor, ignoring the tempo markings and rushing through everything!” But this already slow piece dragged on so much that the beat disappeared. I’m not exaggerating, I promise. All in all, though, I had a good time. Both Lubin and his son were very nice and I enjoyed basking in the admiration of all, especially Lubin’s son.
1-23-09
Today we moved from Sonetta Homestay to Walton Homestay. There was a slight inconvenience because we had to check out of Sonetta by a certain time and our rooms at the Walton’s were not yet ready. Mr. Walton kindly let us leave our bags in the reception room and I got left in charge watching the bags while Mom and Dad finished some business at the last hotel. Fortunately there was a book exchange and I spent the next half hour browsing. After much consideration, I got the book ‘Nightrunners of Bengal’ by John Masters. It is about the 1857 Sepoy rebellion, told from the point of view of a British officer who survives, but sees his world falling apart around him. It promises to be both exciting and interesting. After I picked out the book I was going to keep, I settled down to read something else, something that I couldn’t read later – Oscar Wilde and the Candlelight Murders. I didn’t get very far. The beginning is somewhat intriguing, but I don’t think it has much potential. Mr. Walton, seeing my obvious obsession with books from the way I scribbled titles and authors in a notebook, also recommended something: The Rise of Unmeltable Ethics by Michael Novak. It looks quite interesting.
The rooms are quite nice. I especially like the window seat; if I ever build my own house, I will make sure there is a window seat in my room, with some comfy pillows and a blanket and a curtain in front so I can hide away from the world and read.
After we’d settled in, Mom and I took off to tour the city. We visited the Santa Cruz Basilica which was originally built in 1506, making it the second church to be built in India. However, the current building dates to 1902. The statue of Our Lady of Fatima made our visit to this Portuguese, Catholic basilica something of a homecoming for Mom. She said, “This is my Virgin; this is Her.”
On our walk around town, we saw many examples of Jewish architecture. The Jewish people have traded in India since the 587 BC when they were forced to flee Jerusalem. Legend says that the first Jews actually arrived in the eleventh century BC as part of King Solomon’s trading fleet. When the Catholic Portuguese arrived and started persecuting them, the Maharaja of Cochin granted them asylum. Today, Fort Cochin and the surrounding area is one of the few places to see a remnant of the once flourishing Jewish community. There is wonderful architecture in this city: Jewish, Portuguese, and Dutch. It is great fun just to walk around. Mom and I stepped into several old houses-turned-hotel just to see the inside, even though we weren’t considering moving. The employees humored us, but I’m not at all sure they didn’t laugh at those crazy tourists, trying to fit in by wearing saris but still gawking at everything.
The rooms are quite nice. I especially like the window seat; if I ever build my own house, I will make sure there is a window seat in my room, with some comfy pillows and a blanket and a curtain in front so I can hide away from the world and read.
After we’d settled in, Mom and I took off to tour the city. We visited the Santa Cruz Basilica which was originally built in 1506, making it the second church to be built in India. However, the current building dates to 1902. The statue of Our Lady of Fatima made our visit to this Portuguese, Catholic basilica something of a homecoming for Mom. She said, “This is my Virgin; this is Her.”
On our walk around town, we saw many examples of Jewish architecture. The Jewish people have traded in India since the 587 BC when they were forced to flee Jerusalem. Legend says that the first Jews actually arrived in the eleventh century BC as part of King Solomon’s trading fleet. When the Catholic Portuguese arrived and started persecuting them, the Maharaja of Cochin granted them asylum. Today, Fort Cochin and the surrounding area is one of the few places to see a remnant of the once flourishing Jewish community. There is wonderful architecture in this city: Jewish, Portuguese, and Dutch. It is great fun just to walk around. Mom and I stepped into several old houses-turned-hotel just to see the inside, even though we weren’t considering moving. The employees humored us, but I’m not at all sure they didn’t laugh at those crazy tourists, trying to fit in by wearing saris but still gawking at everything.
Linda: Ellora and Ajanta, Feb. 13-17
Linda: Ellora and Ajanta, Feb. 13-17
Ellora and Ajanta, cave monasteries in all their splendor. This area has several groupings of monasteries, but these two areas are the most resplendent. Ellora is only 29 km from Aurengabad, whose proximity made them vulnerable to the iconoclastic zeal of Aurengzeb. Under Islamic law and as a protection against the paganism in Arabia during the time of the Prophet Muhammad, art work that portrayed the human form was banned. The center of Islamic prayer is the Ka’aba, in Mecca, whose origins began directly through Abraham and his first born son, Ishmael (versus Issac, his son by Sarah). Its religious importance far predates Islam and Christianity and has been a site of pilgrimage from the times of pre-history. During the time of the Prophet, the Ka’aba had been filled with pagan images of many sorts – not images of symbolical and religious value, but ones of a strange and magical and darksome nature – and this at a site originated by the Prophet Abraham whose message was of one God. Islam came to restore that message in its own unique way. After Islam was established in Mecca, the Prophet entered the Ka’aba and had all the darksome images cast out, with one exception. Inside the Ka’aba was a beautiful painting of the Blessed Virgin and Child. This he protected, holding his hand before it, thus placing the image on a different level than the others – one worthy of being respected. And thus was the real way of Islam, who considers both Christianity and Judiasm as “Children of the Book”, in other words, valid revelations. (In fact, the Jewish prophets and Jesus are mentioned many times in the Quran and Mary has an entire chapter dedicated to her. Islam is not anti-Christian or anti-Jewish and in the empires of the Middle East, Christians and Jews held respectful positions). Since then, the great sultans of the Middle East have protected these sacred paintings. In Cappadocia, Turkey, the hillsides are covered in monastic caves from 1000 years ago, many of which are small chapels whose walls and ceilings are covered with ancient Syrian icons – absolutely stunning and worth a visit. These remained untouched until the coming of the secular ruler, Attaturk, who came to power during World War I. This ruler stripped Turkey of its heritage on many fronts, making the Arabic script illegal and keeping men who prayed and women who wore the veil from any kind of civil occupation. This law is still intact today, and people who have a religious conviction have to live as second class citizens in their own country. His anti-religious nature was not just against Islam and it was during his time that the icons in Cappacocia received most of the damage.
This is an aside to the similar desecration done at the hands of Aurengzeb. Hundreds of years of Islamic rule in this country did not deface the beautiful and obviously religious statues that are everywhere in this magnificent land – these rulers having understood both the people they ruled and the meaning of the Prophet’s gesture at the Ka’aba to interpret it as a protection, for the most part, of these statues and paintings. Aurengzeb was of a fundamentalist cast and in an amazingly short amount of time, statues and paintings were either destroyed or mutilated. Ellora, being close to Aurengabad (Aurengzeb’s capital) received much damage. Interestingly, it seems that it was enough to cut off the nose, gouge the eyes, and cut off a hand raised in an attitude of benediction – these having been considered the worst disfigurements of the time. For this, we can be thankful, for the rest of the statue is more or less intact and one can easily see the beauty and wonder of the artwork.
In Ellora, there are 34 Buddhist, Hindu, and Jain temples and monasteries. The earliest to be built were the Buddhist starting around 500 AD. These 12-15 monasteries were built over a period of time, the latest being built at the same time as the Hindu temples and monasteries – just meters away. (Can you imagine the influence/competition? Studying the sculpture and paintings in the various Buddhist caves, one can easily see the change over time from a simpler structure and statues to monasteries that are several stories tall with elaborate paintings detailing the life of the Buddha, the bodhisattvas, and the tales of the Jakarta, previous incarnations of the Buddha. The statues are also much more detailed, with more carvings of the Buddha and also of others deities from the Buddhist legend and religious teachings. Despite any elaboration, the works evoke great serenity, purity of line, beauty of form, and a sense of inwardness and peace. Was the elaboration an outpouring of inspired genius or the influence of Hinduism, carving away next door? One could spend a lifetime here, answering that question.
The 15 Hindu temples are resplendent in their vigor and drama. Here, one sees statues depicting many of the Hindu deities and religious teachings. The most beautiful of all is the Kailash Temple. Kailash is a mountain in the Himalaya – the abode of the gods. In creating this temple, they were re-creating a center. This temple, rather than being carved into the rock was carved away from it. It was carved down, so that it looks like a free-standing temple and courtyard. Its perfection and beauty is astounding, especially when one realizes that the whole thing had to be conceived and executed perfectly since it was being carved away and not built. Every building, statue, and column was created by cutting away the superfluous rock, leaving behind – as if released from the living rock – this magnificent edifice. Such a work of engineering, of ideals, of artistry, and of devotion. And such are the hearts of the people here – still are.
The six Jain temples and monasteries were the last to be built and were excavated in the 9th and 10th centuries, after the Hindu phase had diminished. “After the exuberance of the Kailash temple, their modest scale and subdued interiors lack vitality” – then again, it is in the nature of the Jain symbolism to be peaceful and serene, like Buddhist symbolism. Nonetheless, the carvings are very fine. One cave was only partially excavated, which was quite interesting because one could see the work “in progress” so to speak. Interestingly, they carved out the monastic cells and the chamber that would house the main statue first, before they carved out the courtyard in the center, working from the outside in, rather than the inside out. Why is that? Symbolic or practical reasons?
100 km away is the horseshoe shaped ravine of Ajanta. Though smaller in scale, housing a total of 28 caves, this area was so isolated and overgrown that it escaped the ravages of Aurengzeb. It is also much, much older than Ellora. It is estimated that Ajanta housed around 200 monks, as well as a sizable community of painters, carvers, artisans, and other helpers. It was Buddhism’s first permanent monastery and work began here in the second century BC! Again, one sees the beauty and serenity of the art forms, an art form already mature and intact, radiant in its inspiration, splendor, and ability to draw the mind and soul upward. The entire complex is Buddhist and was abandoned by the seventh century AD! It is not known why – if the monks moved to Ellora, where building had commenced at about the same time, or if there was another reason (warfare, water, trade, a new site for construction, etc.) that made it more desirable to abandon it than continue there. It wasn’t rediscovered by the outside world until 1866, and even then, the evidence of its glories kept getting mysteriously destroyed by fire and earthquake. It is wonderful to see the images intact, but the glory of Ajanta is in the plenitude of its paintings – paintings that are over 2000 years old. Yes, age has done its work, but many, many images remain, of a beauty of detail and form that really must be seen. The colors of a rich red, ochre, blue, green, and white are lovely, using natural pigments from stone (it’s amazing how garish artificial pigments are now). The white color, which I suspect came from the local rock, was particularly eye catching. When natural light was upon it, it glowed, pearly white and iridescent, accenting the ceilings and paintings and adding reflected light throughout the chamber.
The monasteries in both places were place to maximize the effect of the sun. In every case, the light came in and, through the architectural design of the temple, focused on the beautiful image in the center of the opposite side. Always, this image had light, and its beauty was there to behold from any part of the room. The otherworldliness of the main image was also enhanced by its placement. It stood (or sat) at the far end in its own little chamber, but, instead of being centered in the doorway, it was a little higher than center. When viewing it from the other side, the top of the head and halo are cut off, giving the image a floating quality. (Perhaps if one was sitting, one would see the whole thing.) I remember seeing similar architectural designs in the medieval churches of Europe. I am thinking of one in Ireland, in Cashel, where St. Patrick would have taught. In this early and small church (next to the big cathedral there), there is a nave for the worshippers and another area for the altar and priests. This area was slightly off-center and the floor slightly, slightly sloped up – again giving that area of otherworldliness, an architectural support for prayer and remembrance.
Though out of the way, coming to these amazing monasteries is a wonderful thing, reminding us of the greatness of intellect, vision, artistry, and soul that made such things possible. And what will we leave? The Sears Tower?? That’s a sad thought.
Ellora and Ajanta, cave monasteries in all their splendor. This area has several groupings of monasteries, but these two areas are the most resplendent. Ellora is only 29 km from Aurengabad, whose proximity made them vulnerable to the iconoclastic zeal of Aurengzeb. Under Islamic law and as a protection against the paganism in Arabia during the time of the Prophet Muhammad, art work that portrayed the human form was banned. The center of Islamic prayer is the Ka’aba, in Mecca, whose origins began directly through Abraham and his first born son, Ishmael (versus Issac, his son by Sarah). Its religious importance far predates Islam and Christianity and has been a site of pilgrimage from the times of pre-history. During the time of the Prophet, the Ka’aba had been filled with pagan images of many sorts – not images of symbolical and religious value, but ones of a strange and magical and darksome nature – and this at a site originated by the Prophet Abraham whose message was of one God. Islam came to restore that message in its own unique way. After Islam was established in Mecca, the Prophet entered the Ka’aba and had all the darksome images cast out, with one exception. Inside the Ka’aba was a beautiful painting of the Blessed Virgin and Child. This he protected, holding his hand before it, thus placing the image on a different level than the others – one worthy of being respected. And thus was the real way of Islam, who considers both Christianity and Judiasm as “Children of the Book”, in other words, valid revelations. (In fact, the Jewish prophets and Jesus are mentioned many times in the Quran and Mary has an entire chapter dedicated to her. Islam is not anti-Christian or anti-Jewish and in the empires of the Middle East, Christians and Jews held respectful positions). Since then, the great sultans of the Middle East have protected these sacred paintings. In Cappadocia, Turkey, the hillsides are covered in monastic caves from 1000 years ago, many of which are small chapels whose walls and ceilings are covered with ancient Syrian icons – absolutely stunning and worth a visit. These remained untouched until the coming of the secular ruler, Attaturk, who came to power during World War I. This ruler stripped Turkey of its heritage on many fronts, making the Arabic script illegal and keeping men who prayed and women who wore the veil from any kind of civil occupation. This law is still intact today, and people who have a religious conviction have to live as second class citizens in their own country. His anti-religious nature was not just against Islam and it was during his time that the icons in Cappacocia received most of the damage.
This is an aside to the similar desecration done at the hands of Aurengzeb. Hundreds of years of Islamic rule in this country did not deface the beautiful and obviously religious statues that are everywhere in this magnificent land – these rulers having understood both the people they ruled and the meaning of the Prophet’s gesture at the Ka’aba to interpret it as a protection, for the most part, of these statues and paintings. Aurengzeb was of a fundamentalist cast and in an amazingly short amount of time, statues and paintings were either destroyed or mutilated. Ellora, being close to Aurengabad (Aurengzeb’s capital) received much damage. Interestingly, it seems that it was enough to cut off the nose, gouge the eyes, and cut off a hand raised in an attitude of benediction – these having been considered the worst disfigurements of the time. For this, we can be thankful, for the rest of the statue is more or less intact and one can easily see the beauty and wonder of the artwork.
In Ellora, there are 34 Buddhist, Hindu, and Jain temples and monasteries. The earliest to be built were the Buddhist starting around 500 AD. These 12-15 monasteries were built over a period of time, the latest being built at the same time as the Hindu temples and monasteries – just meters away. (Can you imagine the influence/competition? Studying the sculpture and paintings in the various Buddhist caves, one can easily see the change over time from a simpler structure and statues to monasteries that are several stories tall with elaborate paintings detailing the life of the Buddha, the bodhisattvas, and the tales of the Jakarta, previous incarnations of the Buddha. The statues are also much more detailed, with more carvings of the Buddha and also of others deities from the Buddhist legend and religious teachings. Despite any elaboration, the works evoke great serenity, purity of line, beauty of form, and a sense of inwardness and peace. Was the elaboration an outpouring of inspired genius or the influence of Hinduism, carving away next door? One could spend a lifetime here, answering that question.
The 15 Hindu temples are resplendent in their vigor and drama. Here, one sees statues depicting many of the Hindu deities and religious teachings. The most beautiful of all is the Kailash Temple. Kailash is a mountain in the Himalaya – the abode of the gods. In creating this temple, they were re-creating a center. This temple, rather than being carved into the rock was carved away from it. It was carved down, so that it looks like a free-standing temple and courtyard. Its perfection and beauty is astounding, especially when one realizes that the whole thing had to be conceived and executed perfectly since it was being carved away and not built. Every building, statue, and column was created by cutting away the superfluous rock, leaving behind – as if released from the living rock – this magnificent edifice. Such a work of engineering, of ideals, of artistry, and of devotion. And such are the hearts of the people here – still are.
The six Jain temples and monasteries were the last to be built and were excavated in the 9th and 10th centuries, after the Hindu phase had diminished. “After the exuberance of the Kailash temple, their modest scale and subdued interiors lack vitality” – then again, it is in the nature of the Jain symbolism to be peaceful and serene, like Buddhist symbolism. Nonetheless, the carvings are very fine. One cave was only partially excavated, which was quite interesting because one could see the work “in progress” so to speak. Interestingly, they carved out the monastic cells and the chamber that would house the main statue first, before they carved out the courtyard in the center, working from the outside in, rather than the inside out. Why is that? Symbolic or practical reasons?
100 km away is the horseshoe shaped ravine of Ajanta. Though smaller in scale, housing a total of 28 caves, this area was so isolated and overgrown that it escaped the ravages of Aurengzeb. It is also much, much older than Ellora. It is estimated that Ajanta housed around 200 monks, as well as a sizable community of painters, carvers, artisans, and other helpers. It was Buddhism’s first permanent monastery and work began here in the second century BC! Again, one sees the beauty and serenity of the art forms, an art form already mature and intact, radiant in its inspiration, splendor, and ability to draw the mind and soul upward. The entire complex is Buddhist and was abandoned by the seventh century AD! It is not known why – if the monks moved to Ellora, where building had commenced at about the same time, or if there was another reason (warfare, water, trade, a new site for construction, etc.) that made it more desirable to abandon it than continue there. It wasn’t rediscovered by the outside world until 1866, and even then, the evidence of its glories kept getting mysteriously destroyed by fire and earthquake. It is wonderful to see the images intact, but the glory of Ajanta is in the plenitude of its paintings – paintings that are over 2000 years old. Yes, age has done its work, but many, many images remain, of a beauty of detail and form that really must be seen. The colors of a rich red, ochre, blue, green, and white are lovely, using natural pigments from stone (it’s amazing how garish artificial pigments are now). The white color, which I suspect came from the local rock, was particularly eye catching. When natural light was upon it, it glowed, pearly white and iridescent, accenting the ceilings and paintings and adding reflected light throughout the chamber.
The monasteries in both places were place to maximize the effect of the sun. In every case, the light came in and, through the architectural design of the temple, focused on the beautiful image in the center of the opposite side. Always, this image had light, and its beauty was there to behold from any part of the room. The otherworldliness of the main image was also enhanced by its placement. It stood (or sat) at the far end in its own little chamber, but, instead of being centered in the doorway, it was a little higher than center. When viewing it from the other side, the top of the head and halo are cut off, giving the image a floating quality. (Perhaps if one was sitting, one would see the whole thing.) I remember seeing similar architectural designs in the medieval churches of Europe. I am thinking of one in Ireland, in Cashel, where St. Patrick would have taught. In this early and small church (next to the big cathedral there), there is a nave for the worshippers and another area for the altar and priests. This area was slightly off-center and the floor slightly, slightly sloped up – again giving that area of otherworldliness, an architectural support for prayer and remembrance.
Though out of the way, coming to these amazing monasteries is a wonderful thing, reminding us of the greatness of intellect, vision, artistry, and soul that made such things possible. And what will we leave? The Sears Tower?? That’s a sad thought.
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