Arranged Marriages
In India, there are two kinds of marriages: love marriages and arranged marriages. This has become a frequent topic of conversation once I know someone for a little while. I think it is because I am older, because I am western, because I am a mother, and because they see me with Eleanor and enjoy and appreciate our relationship. I am, therefore, “safe” to talk to. I am told that 95% of the marriages in India are arranged, but because of the influence of television and Hollywood and even Bollywood, the “idea” of a love marriage is now part of the general mentality of young people. It is not something they entertain as a real possibility, but, I think it will become more of a possibility for the next generation and will often lead to great distress and instability within the families. It would mark a significant and deep rooted change in attitude and priorities and social structures with many, many repercussions on every possible level.
It is a very complicated subject, the complexity of which I am only beginning to appreciate. First, one must understand what is positive about arranged marriages, as they should be and as they often are. Yes, there are exceptions. Yes, there are marriages that are arranged just for a family to receive the bride’s dowry. There are unfortunate marriages, difficult marriages, and abusive marriages, but that is not the norm and is not because of the marriage having been arranged. The happiness rate in relationships is, overall, very, very high, and the Vedic verses are quite detailed on what is important in a relationship. For example, the advice to a man is to know that a woman wants to be listened to. She wants to be understood, she wants to be heard, and she wants her opinions to matter. According to the Vedas, if a man does not consider his wife in this way, he is not a virtuous husband. And the advice to a woman is to understand that a man wants to be respected, appreciated, and admired, and to be shown that respect, appreciation, and admiration. It is what vivifies him and makes him happy.
Arranged marriages are not random. Parents deeply love their children and want them to be secure and happy. They know that part of their happiness will be in a relationship that is safe and nurturing and stimulating. Great care is taken to introduce young people to one another whom the parents think will be suitable for them. Family is very, very important here. It is usual for the woman to go and live in the family home of her new husband, so having a familial background similar to her new home is critical to her future happiness and to the husband’s family as well. Education, experience, caste/religion, income, and family are all considered, but what is most important is the character of the bride or groom. Potential suitors come to meet the family, and both children have some say in whether they are interested in someone or not. If both families are happy and an interest is there in the couple, an auspicious day is determined for the betrothal and then for the wedding. At that time, the couple will see each other through family gatherings, or, if separated, communicate by phone or email.
It is often true, however, that the couple will not know each other very well before the marriage. And this is the truly beautiful part that I have seen here, many times. After the marriage, the new husband and new wife are determined to make the other person happy. It is not about what they want, but what would be pleasurable for the other. This idea is steeped into them. It is part of their being.
I think of one of the people here at the Cultural Center who makes all of our arrangements and sees to all of our needs. We were speaking one night, and he was telling me about the first years of his marriage. Because of his work and his experiences, he has a wider knowledge of the world than his wife. She has had a quiet, traditional country upbringing. He wanted to show her the city, to share this possibility with her. Every care was made for her comfort when they visited Chennai together. But she was not happy. She found the city overwhelming and uncomfortable for her. Her husband realized that this was so for her. He has renounced going to the city for the sake of her comfort and well being. Another time, he wanted to take her to the ocean. Though it is quite close, she has never been. One day, he takes her there, and quietly busies himself with the blanket and picnic lunch so she can have a few moments to herself to take it all in. How incredibly thoughtful and caring! And then, to his utter delight, he turns around and sees his new wife, up to her thighs in the water, playing joyfully with two little children. His eyes were still glistening when he told this, though it took place over a year ago. He said that he knew then that he had a very special wife. He loved this in her. He loved when she went on the bike with him, though it frightened her a bit. He loves sharing this beautiful world with her. Slowly, through this kind of thoughtfulness, love blossoms.
And then there was our friend in Kumily and his wife. They have been married for two years, and I had the delightful pleasure of meeting her after he had been away for three days. When I visited Kumily the second time, I was invited into their home. There was no forewarning for his wife, either, as there is no phone! But in India, this is the norm. If you have a home, food is always on hand or close by. I arrive and see the vibrant and childlike joy in this woman’s face when her husband returns home. I see his pride in bringing me to his home to meet his wife. Photographs of their wedding are brought out, tea is served, a baby is dangling on my knee (that was delightful), Fadish, the husband, disappears to get a few things for dinner and soon a meal of chapattis and curry is served. I eat alone while I am served and entertained by Fadish and his wife. They will eat together later. And while I eat, we talk of family and holiday. Fadish gets his income through the tourist industry in Kumily. In July there is often a slow season where there is no work. Fadish hopes to take his wife and daughter to see some family members at that time. I innocently ask if they will see his wife’s family as well. “OH! She exclaims. Can we?” She looks at him and holds him and bounces with delight and anticipation. His face is laughing. “Well, it is very hot there. Maybe it won’t be good for the baby.” More interchanges and laughter. Somehow, I think she will get her way – although, it is the husband’s decision. Fadish takes me back to the hotel, eager to return to his beautiful wife and simple home.
And so it is. For most of the young men with whom I spoke, it was a relief to not have to worry about finding a wife. They have absolutely no idea how to go about it and the idea is quite overwhelming. They are quite happy to do their work and let their parents search. Then, they will see. I have spoken with fewer women on this subject, so I am not sure what they would say. It would be an interesting question to pursue.
Though we in the west choose the ones we want to marry, I cannot say that the marriages are either happier or less happy than they are in India. (Certainly, the dating process can be painful!) Again, I speak of normal marriages and not the tragic ones – it is only fair to compare apples and apples. There is a visceral reaction in the west to think that Indian marriages are, for women, stifling and terrible. It is not what I have seen, though women have much, much less independence here. But that is not due to the arranged part of the marriage; that is due to social need and precedent. Marriage is sacred, and the participation of the husband and wife is essential in the performance of daily devotion and prayer. Both are necessary. Both are incomplete without the other - at least in this stage of life. Marriage is an opportunity for virtue, self-sacrifice, trust, and respect. It is about family, not self. It builds character – in India as well as in America.
Note from Jaisalmer
This is indeed a complex subject – of interest here as in everywhere. Here in the far off city of Jaisalmer, arranged marriages are absolutely the norm, and only in the most educated families will the couple meet – after the engagement, and then, only within a family circle. And yet, in all conversations, couples are happy and consider this the best of arrangements. There is so much more to discover regarding this vital and integral part of Indian society, for it is all of Indian society and is not based on economics, caste, religion, or region. It is, vitally, Indian. And utterly fascinating.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Linda: Delhi? Done!, March 25
Delhi? Done!
We arrive to our little room in Delhi at about 1:30 in the morning. Thankfully, the hotels we called were all full and the place we found was in the home of a nice middle class family who now live in America. Somehow, after having been in Kerala for so long, it was nice to be with a family on a quiet little street, even if it was in the heart of New Delhi. We were to spend two nights in Delhi, the first being the night of our arrival. The next day and a half we would visit the sights of Delhi and leave for Jaisalmar later in the afternoon of the second day. It was our intention to see the most interesting sights now, while it was still a little cool, and see other points of interest upon one of our other visits to Delhi. Delhi is centrally located for the next set of travel plans, as it is the jumping off and return point both to Rajasthan and to the Himalaya Mountains to the north.
A big city. A really big city. It was, however, clean and there were many, many gardens and trees. This was a surprise and due to the delight the Moguls had for their gardens and for the relatively later period of expansion that continued to include large green spaces for the people. It was here in Delhi that I completely realized how at ease I had become in India. We went through the day of negotiations with rickshaw drivers, of winding our way through streets, of meandering in alleys and byways, of visiting palaces and gardens with ease and without that little trepidation that adds stress and uncertainty to the day. It was Monday and that center of Delhi, the Red Fort, was closed. We spent the day visiting the Putana Qila, another of the ancient fort/palaces of Delhi. This was the palace where Hayuman (spelling?), grandfather of Akbar, died. The treasury/library and mosque still stand; the former a two story pavilion structure surrounded by gardens with the open mosque nearby. We then visited Hayuman’s tomb, built by his grieving wife, as his was an untimely death. This tomb was the first of a series of tomb’s whose glory would one day be the Taj Mahal. It was the first tomb designed on a grand scale of geometry and proportion in the midst of an expansive garden. One can see the overall design that was to become the Taj, and it was beautiful and serene.
Nearby, was a shrine of the first of the great Chishti Sufi saints. There were four saints altogether. This one lived in the 1300’s, during the reign of Tuqhlug. Akbar visited this shrine every year and it is, to this day, a place of veneration and pilgrimage. And … it was across the street. Eleanor and I cross the street – again one must have the image of Indian streets. Each side is two lanes wide – with about 5 lanes of vehicles weaving their way in and out of traffic. No carts and bullocks, though, so it was actually much, much easier than negotiating the Chennai streets! Safely across and we enter … another world. Literally, one street from a busy road and we enter the Islamic world of Old Delhi. Prayers have just finished in the mosque and hundreds of people, mostly men, pour out in jelaba and cap. They have left their goods upon the streets to go to the mosque to pray, knowing that it will be there when they return. We go, upstream through a tide of men with the occasional bright color of a sari punctuating the light colors. The streets are a din of sound and returning life and the air is filled with the tantalizing aroma of food – meat! I haven’t even seen meat for a month. The spices, the oils, the sizzling sounds, the clink of tools working on crafts, the conversations all spill around and envelope you in this world. Small streets weave their way and … we’re out on the main street! Back again to look for the shrine and … back on the main street? Well, the best answer is to hire a bicycle rickshaw to take us to the shrine, even if we were only a few streets away. So, map in hand and directions given through an English speaking Muslim and we are on our way. An our later … we are still meandering through the same streets! The well intentioned driver was hoping he’d just happen to find what we wanted – and that we’d recognize it! Several conversations later and we finally meet someone who knows the right word to convey to the driver. Instead of shrine, we should have used durgah. Ahh! Recognition and relief lights up the eyes of the driver. We now meander into even smaller streets and are dropped off by a stall that sells flowers – obviously for giving to the shrine. The driver, hopeful we’ll come out and need more driving, refuses to take our money. This, we know, will lead to a confrontation later, so Eleanor puts the money on the rack and we leave. Shoes off, we then go through several other small streets, small meaning about three feet wide. This, this is ancient Delhi, and narrow streets means more shade and cooler homes and walking. Little doors, people’s homes, tailors working in the street, children at play, down steps, and a world opens. “Asalamu alaikum, sisters”, greet us as the stairs open into sunlight. In front is the golden shrine of Chishtri, with its chandeliers and calligraphy. On the porch around the shrine, women sit and pray. Women are not allowed inside the shrine, so they sit as close as they can and occasionally look through the screens to see within. Threads, witness to prayers asked at the shrine, are tied to the screens. Men line up to go within while other men and women sit around the shrine. We sit for awhile. A small mosque to our left as well as other areas that we later found out had their own significance. A drummer arrives and adds a wonderful, rhythmic heartbeat to the prayers murmured all around. Ancient and intense in a quiet sort of way. A moment rooted in time and so, timeless. Here, in the heart of one of the biggest cities of the world, lies this ancient jewel, a place of prayer whose surface has changed over the years, but whose voice echoes with the ancient and the real.
We leave later in the day, just enough time to visit the Qutb Minar, a triumphal tower built around the 1300’s in commemoration of the Moghul taking of Delhi. It is a beautiful 7 storied tower, each story being a little different. Like all Islamic architecture, it is a glory of simplicity, of geometry, of beauty, of proportion. It is a perfection. The remains of a mosque are nearby, a mosque built upon and from the ruins of Hindu temple that had once graced this spot, for this ground has been sacred from the beginning of history. In fact, it is the area of Delhi that was the site of the Indrapustra, that ancient citadel of the Pandavas and Krishna, known through the epic, The Mahabharata. In the confines of this small area, there were several Moghul firsts: there was the first triumphal tower, the first official and large mosque built on the grounds of a temple, the first college built started by a saint who was then buried there, the very first blending of Islamic and Indian art. There is also a very ancient (2000 years – perhaps much more) iron pillar which has an inscription on it. Though it is a pillar of iron, it has not rusted in all these thousands of years, something which intrigues modern scientists who do not know how ancient man could have accomplished this with the technology of their time. This is a story often repeated, and it is a good reason to leave the west and to visit places such as India or Turkey – to see the ancient marvels and the imagination of a great people, to know that there is much, much to learn. The west has a certain ascendancy now due to its interest in and development of technology. But an ascendancy in technology does not necessarily mean a superiority of mind or of heart. East and West are meeting, more and more often now. The world is changing here. Everyone feels it. Everyone talks about it. They know that their children’s world will be different. What will it mean? How will it be? What will be “gained”? What will be lost? Karma. There is no fear here of the future. There is no expectation. There is no planning. None of the things we expect in the west. There isn’t really any curiosity. It will be what it will be.
Our day ends with a stroll in an ancient garden, the Lodi Garden. We only saw a small, small part of this garden – green forest and flowers interspersed with tombs and shrines and ancient buildings. We eat in the (expensive) restaurant that sits inside the garden, away from the noise of the city. Quiet and a good end of a day - in the city and yet away from it.
The next day, we visit the Red Fort and the Jami Masjid, the largest mosque in India. Both were built by Shah Jahan, who also built the Taj Mahal, but it was never used by him as a capital. By the time it was complete, Shah Jahan had been imprisoned by his son, Aurengzeb, in the Agra Fort. It was Aurengzeb who rule from Delhi, him and descendents and Moghul sultans after them, and then, in 1847 the British army lived their until Indian Independence in 1947. The fort is a large enclosure with two walled areas. The first was for the people and the troops of the sultan. This area is separated from the more private area by the Diwan-i-Am, our Chamber for Public Audience. Here, the people could meet their sultan and have their concerns heard and solved. And … one better be sure one wanted the sultan to know, because his word was law. Whatever he determined would, surely, come to pass. The hall is an open area with an beautiful inlaid and elevated area for the throne, set behind a stone balustrade of intricate carving. One approached the building and throne through a large garden, after having passed through the fort gates and what once had been the most opulent markets in the world. On enters the private gardens of the sultan either to the right or left of this Public Audience Chamber. Here, one is greeted by a line of beautiful marble palaces set back from a beautiful garden. They had once lined the Yamuna River, and water from this river would have flowed throughout the garden and the palaces in tinkling streams and fountains. The palaces are elaborate and ornate, yet simple and precise at the same time. They are large, and yet, the individual quarters are small. Overall they are white and simple, yet up close, they are intricate and beautifully carved. Every detail is lovely, from the carved balustrades to the remnants of paintings and mirrors and inlay that had lined the ceilings and walls. One sees where the jewels had once been placed in the inlay of wall and ceiling. Walls twinkling with a thousand lights, magnificent in detail and yet simple in overall impression. And an unmistakable and overall grandeur. One of the buildings is the Hall for Private Audiences, and it was here where the famous Peacock Throne once sat – a jeweled work of perfection. To the left of the Hall is the hammam, or private bath, as well as the Pearl Mosque – small and lovely, and then more gardens and pavilions and water. To the right of the Hall are the Sultan’s private quarters with a large tower from which he would address the people. And next to that is the palace of his favorite wife and other women. A large stream went through these palaces, playing through the carved channels, bringing coolness and a peaceful trickle through these open palaces. For, all is open in this hot climate. Air and light play amongst the columns, where music and perfume danced with the women in the quiet times of a monarch’s life.
We leave these quiet gardens to walk, briefly, along the busy streets of Delhi. I had assumed the Jami Masjid would be in view, which I am sure it had been in the times of the sultans, but now it is behind some other buildings – some also of interest, such as the Jain Temple. To get to the Mosque, we again entered the ancient Islamic quarter – and again, quite quickly and unexpectedly. We left the honking of the four lane road in front of the Red Fort to a smaller street with a warren of side streets, filled with men and women in Islamic dress. Artisans, shopkeepers, kitchens, delicious smells, markets, beggars (not many, though), streets upon little street, and to our right rises the magnificent mosque in red sandstone. We go through the small entrance at street level to ascend, step upon step, to a large, grand gate. We enter, shoes in hand, and sit in the women’s section, for we happened to come during the time of prayer. In a way, coming here during the time of prayer completed the prayer cycle for us. We were graced with seeing puja in great temples and in serene ashrams, of prayers in the little churches and cathedrals around Kochi, in seeing thousands of monks around the Bodhgaya, in seeing ceremonies and prayers in the heart of the jungle and in the shrine at the heart of Delhi. And today, hundreds of Muslims gather to pray in peace outside the Old Fort in this modern city. Here, in this perfection of form here in India, is gathered another of the great religions of this Indian world. For it is not only a world of Hindu, but a world of Buddhists, of Moslems and of Christians – with a touch of Zorastrian, Jain, Sikh, and other religions sprinkled in as well. And this world, this world is a beautiful one.
What a glory of differences. And yet, in their transcendence, all the same.
Though we had spent a lovely day and half in Delhi and there were many more sights to see and gardens to explore, both Eleanor and I had enough of a big city - so we think. Our paths will come close to Delhi three more times before we leave for home, but today may be the last time we actually explore it. For us, the open air and the more wild places.
And so … to the farthest west of India – the ancient trade citadel of Jaisalmar.
We arrive to our little room in Delhi at about 1:30 in the morning. Thankfully, the hotels we called were all full and the place we found was in the home of a nice middle class family who now live in America. Somehow, after having been in Kerala for so long, it was nice to be with a family on a quiet little street, even if it was in the heart of New Delhi. We were to spend two nights in Delhi, the first being the night of our arrival. The next day and a half we would visit the sights of Delhi and leave for Jaisalmar later in the afternoon of the second day. It was our intention to see the most interesting sights now, while it was still a little cool, and see other points of interest upon one of our other visits to Delhi. Delhi is centrally located for the next set of travel plans, as it is the jumping off and return point both to Rajasthan and to the Himalaya Mountains to the north.
A big city. A really big city. It was, however, clean and there were many, many gardens and trees. This was a surprise and due to the delight the Moguls had for their gardens and for the relatively later period of expansion that continued to include large green spaces for the people. It was here in Delhi that I completely realized how at ease I had become in India. We went through the day of negotiations with rickshaw drivers, of winding our way through streets, of meandering in alleys and byways, of visiting palaces and gardens with ease and without that little trepidation that adds stress and uncertainty to the day. It was Monday and that center of Delhi, the Red Fort, was closed. We spent the day visiting the Putana Qila, another of the ancient fort/palaces of Delhi. This was the palace where Hayuman (spelling?), grandfather of Akbar, died. The treasury/library and mosque still stand; the former a two story pavilion structure surrounded by gardens with the open mosque nearby. We then visited Hayuman’s tomb, built by his grieving wife, as his was an untimely death. This tomb was the first of a series of tomb’s whose glory would one day be the Taj Mahal. It was the first tomb designed on a grand scale of geometry and proportion in the midst of an expansive garden. One can see the overall design that was to become the Taj, and it was beautiful and serene.
Nearby, was a shrine of the first of the great Chishti Sufi saints. There were four saints altogether. This one lived in the 1300’s, during the reign of Tuqhlug. Akbar visited this shrine every year and it is, to this day, a place of veneration and pilgrimage. And … it was across the street. Eleanor and I cross the street – again one must have the image of Indian streets. Each side is two lanes wide – with about 5 lanes of vehicles weaving their way in and out of traffic. No carts and bullocks, though, so it was actually much, much easier than negotiating the Chennai streets! Safely across and we enter … another world. Literally, one street from a busy road and we enter the Islamic world of Old Delhi. Prayers have just finished in the mosque and hundreds of people, mostly men, pour out in jelaba and cap. They have left their goods upon the streets to go to the mosque to pray, knowing that it will be there when they return. We go, upstream through a tide of men with the occasional bright color of a sari punctuating the light colors. The streets are a din of sound and returning life and the air is filled with the tantalizing aroma of food – meat! I haven’t even seen meat for a month. The spices, the oils, the sizzling sounds, the clink of tools working on crafts, the conversations all spill around and envelope you in this world. Small streets weave their way and … we’re out on the main street! Back again to look for the shrine and … back on the main street? Well, the best answer is to hire a bicycle rickshaw to take us to the shrine, even if we were only a few streets away. So, map in hand and directions given through an English speaking Muslim and we are on our way. An our later … we are still meandering through the same streets! The well intentioned driver was hoping he’d just happen to find what we wanted – and that we’d recognize it! Several conversations later and we finally meet someone who knows the right word to convey to the driver. Instead of shrine, we should have used durgah. Ahh! Recognition and relief lights up the eyes of the driver. We now meander into even smaller streets and are dropped off by a stall that sells flowers – obviously for giving to the shrine. The driver, hopeful we’ll come out and need more driving, refuses to take our money. This, we know, will lead to a confrontation later, so Eleanor puts the money on the rack and we leave. Shoes off, we then go through several other small streets, small meaning about three feet wide. This, this is ancient Delhi, and narrow streets means more shade and cooler homes and walking. Little doors, people’s homes, tailors working in the street, children at play, down steps, and a world opens. “Asalamu alaikum, sisters”, greet us as the stairs open into sunlight. In front is the golden shrine of Chishtri, with its chandeliers and calligraphy. On the porch around the shrine, women sit and pray. Women are not allowed inside the shrine, so they sit as close as they can and occasionally look through the screens to see within. Threads, witness to prayers asked at the shrine, are tied to the screens. Men line up to go within while other men and women sit around the shrine. We sit for awhile. A small mosque to our left as well as other areas that we later found out had their own significance. A drummer arrives and adds a wonderful, rhythmic heartbeat to the prayers murmured all around. Ancient and intense in a quiet sort of way. A moment rooted in time and so, timeless. Here, in the heart of one of the biggest cities of the world, lies this ancient jewel, a place of prayer whose surface has changed over the years, but whose voice echoes with the ancient and the real.
We leave later in the day, just enough time to visit the Qutb Minar, a triumphal tower built around the 1300’s in commemoration of the Moghul taking of Delhi. It is a beautiful 7 storied tower, each story being a little different. Like all Islamic architecture, it is a glory of simplicity, of geometry, of beauty, of proportion. It is a perfection. The remains of a mosque are nearby, a mosque built upon and from the ruins of Hindu temple that had once graced this spot, for this ground has been sacred from the beginning of history. In fact, it is the area of Delhi that was the site of the Indrapustra, that ancient citadel of the Pandavas and Krishna, known through the epic, The Mahabharata. In the confines of this small area, there were several Moghul firsts: there was the first triumphal tower, the first official and large mosque built on the grounds of a temple, the first college built started by a saint who was then buried there, the very first blending of Islamic and Indian art. There is also a very ancient (2000 years – perhaps much more) iron pillar which has an inscription on it. Though it is a pillar of iron, it has not rusted in all these thousands of years, something which intrigues modern scientists who do not know how ancient man could have accomplished this with the technology of their time. This is a story often repeated, and it is a good reason to leave the west and to visit places such as India or Turkey – to see the ancient marvels and the imagination of a great people, to know that there is much, much to learn. The west has a certain ascendancy now due to its interest in and development of technology. But an ascendancy in technology does not necessarily mean a superiority of mind or of heart. East and West are meeting, more and more often now. The world is changing here. Everyone feels it. Everyone talks about it. They know that their children’s world will be different. What will it mean? How will it be? What will be “gained”? What will be lost? Karma. There is no fear here of the future. There is no expectation. There is no planning. None of the things we expect in the west. There isn’t really any curiosity. It will be what it will be.
Our day ends with a stroll in an ancient garden, the Lodi Garden. We only saw a small, small part of this garden – green forest and flowers interspersed with tombs and shrines and ancient buildings. We eat in the (expensive) restaurant that sits inside the garden, away from the noise of the city. Quiet and a good end of a day - in the city and yet away from it.
The next day, we visit the Red Fort and the Jami Masjid, the largest mosque in India. Both were built by Shah Jahan, who also built the Taj Mahal, but it was never used by him as a capital. By the time it was complete, Shah Jahan had been imprisoned by his son, Aurengzeb, in the Agra Fort. It was Aurengzeb who rule from Delhi, him and descendents and Moghul sultans after them, and then, in 1847 the British army lived their until Indian Independence in 1947. The fort is a large enclosure with two walled areas. The first was for the people and the troops of the sultan. This area is separated from the more private area by the Diwan-i-Am, our Chamber for Public Audience. Here, the people could meet their sultan and have their concerns heard and solved. And … one better be sure one wanted the sultan to know, because his word was law. Whatever he determined would, surely, come to pass. The hall is an open area with an beautiful inlaid and elevated area for the throne, set behind a stone balustrade of intricate carving. One approached the building and throne through a large garden, after having passed through the fort gates and what once had been the most opulent markets in the world. On enters the private gardens of the sultan either to the right or left of this Public Audience Chamber. Here, one is greeted by a line of beautiful marble palaces set back from a beautiful garden. They had once lined the Yamuna River, and water from this river would have flowed throughout the garden and the palaces in tinkling streams and fountains. The palaces are elaborate and ornate, yet simple and precise at the same time. They are large, and yet, the individual quarters are small. Overall they are white and simple, yet up close, they are intricate and beautifully carved. Every detail is lovely, from the carved balustrades to the remnants of paintings and mirrors and inlay that had lined the ceilings and walls. One sees where the jewels had once been placed in the inlay of wall and ceiling. Walls twinkling with a thousand lights, magnificent in detail and yet simple in overall impression. And an unmistakable and overall grandeur. One of the buildings is the Hall for Private Audiences, and it was here where the famous Peacock Throne once sat – a jeweled work of perfection. To the left of the Hall is the hammam, or private bath, as well as the Pearl Mosque – small and lovely, and then more gardens and pavilions and water. To the right of the Hall are the Sultan’s private quarters with a large tower from which he would address the people. And next to that is the palace of his favorite wife and other women. A large stream went through these palaces, playing through the carved channels, bringing coolness and a peaceful trickle through these open palaces. For, all is open in this hot climate. Air and light play amongst the columns, where music and perfume danced with the women in the quiet times of a monarch’s life.
We leave these quiet gardens to walk, briefly, along the busy streets of Delhi. I had assumed the Jami Masjid would be in view, which I am sure it had been in the times of the sultans, but now it is behind some other buildings – some also of interest, such as the Jain Temple. To get to the Mosque, we again entered the ancient Islamic quarter – and again, quite quickly and unexpectedly. We left the honking of the four lane road in front of the Red Fort to a smaller street with a warren of side streets, filled with men and women in Islamic dress. Artisans, shopkeepers, kitchens, delicious smells, markets, beggars (not many, though), streets upon little street, and to our right rises the magnificent mosque in red sandstone. We go through the small entrance at street level to ascend, step upon step, to a large, grand gate. We enter, shoes in hand, and sit in the women’s section, for we happened to come during the time of prayer. In a way, coming here during the time of prayer completed the prayer cycle for us. We were graced with seeing puja in great temples and in serene ashrams, of prayers in the little churches and cathedrals around Kochi, in seeing thousands of monks around the Bodhgaya, in seeing ceremonies and prayers in the heart of the jungle and in the shrine at the heart of Delhi. And today, hundreds of Muslims gather to pray in peace outside the Old Fort in this modern city. Here, in this perfection of form here in India, is gathered another of the great religions of this Indian world. For it is not only a world of Hindu, but a world of Buddhists, of Moslems and of Christians – with a touch of Zorastrian, Jain, Sikh, and other religions sprinkled in as well. And this world, this world is a beautiful one.
What a glory of differences. And yet, in their transcendence, all the same.
Though we had spent a lovely day and half in Delhi and there were many more sights to see and gardens to explore, both Eleanor and I had enough of a big city - so we think. Our paths will come close to Delhi three more times before we leave for home, but today may be the last time we actually explore it. For us, the open air and the more wild places.
And so … to the farthest west of India – the ancient trade citadel of Jaisalmar.
Linda: Farewell to Kerala, March 22
Farewell to Kerala
The last few days in Kerala were a series of last minute preparations and farewells. The days were touched by the pull of the soul, watching everyone and everything, hoarding the treasure of the little details deep within, memories which turn to gems in the depths of the heart. The sound of the rustle of palm, the cow tethered outside the gate, the greeting of Ravi who watched over us all in the darkness of the night, the smile of the tailor and neighbors who have seen us walk past them over this short month. The care and love of these people who gave us their help, and their love. Lovely little moments. Gathering things to ship home and being helped by the tailor and by our friends in sealing and addressing it. A shopping excursion on Wednesday to a nearby town with Eleanor’s dance teacher – to buy jewelry. Such kindness and generosity! On Thursday, Eleanor dressed in our best sari with full make-up and jewelry and performed the dance she had been practicing for a month. My eyes could not believe that this was my daughter performing such an elaborate and detailed dance after a few short weeks. She, like me, had become steeped in the heartbeat of India, but hers came through the stamping of feet, the love of a teacher, and the kindness of all. On Friday, Eleanor said her farewells to her dance and violin teacher, I said mine to the yoga teacher and my cooking teacher. My last farewell to Santosh was through a letter, left on his harmonium, for him to read on Monday after we were many, many kilometers away.
Friday night, we had a last meal with the family who is running a school. This is such an amazing and beautiful school. They have taken ten children of all ages from their village and brought them into their home. Their instruction is not only literacy, but in learning through experience, through field trips, through everyday living, through interactions with many people, and, most beautifully, through the arts. Every aspect of their lives is meaningful, respectful, harmonious. They live and work together in honor and respect. The children cooked the meal for us while we talked with these wonderful teachers/parents, as well as with our two friends from the Center. Afterwards, singing, music, and a final farewell. This farewell was a sweet one, for I hope to gather teaching supplies to send to this family. Notebooks, pens (lots of pens), trays, binders, books, and with the gift will come the hope that this connection of hearts will continue.
And, most difficult of all, was the farewell with Sarath. So many, many hours were spent together in class, at his family home, in his office in consultation and during and after Eleanor’s many treatments for her knees. These daily visits for nearly a month were times to which we all looked forward. The difference in age made conversation easy, open, honest, respectful, heartfelt. These conversations ranged along the gamut of possibilities, from college days to future hopes, family and friends, medicine in the East and in the West, metaphysics and poetry, aphorisms and tales, history and legend – touching, only touching the surface of so many ideas with the joyful recognition that someone else thought the same. One quickly glossed over the superficial as minds met in understanding and quickly went deeper, with growing trust and respect. So much was said, and yet, as I left each day, I realized how much more there was to discover, to ponder, and to share. And so the last moments came, spun out until the last possible second. There is a promise, a hope that he will one day come to visit in the United States – the forest and the medicines growing in the garden as well as the friendship with the students who have become family call him there. And for us, there is the hope to return again to study. But, what will that future be? One hopes, but those last moments were tinged with the knowledge that one can never recapture the present moment. And one never knows what the future will bring. For Sarath, there are the possibilities of post graduate work, marriage, research, and expanding the venerable family medical practice that will all come into his life over the next year or two. For us, there are the everyday joys and duties – and a much tighter budget. Over and over in India, it is here and it is now. And so the final moments moved to the end. There is nothing one can say. A brief holding of hands, eyes tinged with tears, volumes left unsaid, and yet, in the eyes, that knowledge that one will never, never forget. A gift. A perfect and unexpected friendship. Family. Something to cherish and protect in one’s mind, in one’s memory, in one’s thoughts and words.
Sunday came with the last minute packing, emails, and preparations. 12:30, the rickshaw waits. We are in the lobby of our home for the past month and all, all comes crashing to the present. It is Eleanor and me with all the staff who have come to say farewell. Little conversations, poignant, full of meaning and sincerity echo now in my mind. “Don’t be sad.” Am I sad? Yes, for separation is always a sadness, and in this world there is always separation. But … there is also reunion, maybe in this world, but definitely in the heart. Sad? Yes, but mostly a rich, rich joy for crystalline moments for mind, of heart, and of soul. I cannot hold back the tears for all that has been given. So many people come through this little center. Every week, there are new students coming, needing, asking, and leaving. The doors open and close. Don’t we all start to look the same? And yet, here Eleanor and I are and it is real. Warm hearts, wholly and freely given. Through the little window in the back of the rickshaw and through a veil of tears, I watch the waving hands get smaller and smaller. Through the narrow gate and out. An end. A new beginning
The last few days in Kerala were a series of last minute preparations and farewells. The days were touched by the pull of the soul, watching everyone and everything, hoarding the treasure of the little details deep within, memories which turn to gems in the depths of the heart. The sound of the rustle of palm, the cow tethered outside the gate, the greeting of Ravi who watched over us all in the darkness of the night, the smile of the tailor and neighbors who have seen us walk past them over this short month. The care and love of these people who gave us their help, and their love. Lovely little moments. Gathering things to ship home and being helped by the tailor and by our friends in sealing and addressing it. A shopping excursion on Wednesday to a nearby town with Eleanor’s dance teacher – to buy jewelry. Such kindness and generosity! On Thursday, Eleanor dressed in our best sari with full make-up and jewelry and performed the dance she had been practicing for a month. My eyes could not believe that this was my daughter performing such an elaborate and detailed dance after a few short weeks. She, like me, had become steeped in the heartbeat of India, but hers came through the stamping of feet, the love of a teacher, and the kindness of all. On Friday, Eleanor said her farewells to her dance and violin teacher, I said mine to the yoga teacher and my cooking teacher. My last farewell to Santosh was through a letter, left on his harmonium, for him to read on Monday after we were many, many kilometers away.
Friday night, we had a last meal with the family who is running a school. This is such an amazing and beautiful school. They have taken ten children of all ages from their village and brought them into their home. Their instruction is not only literacy, but in learning through experience, through field trips, through everyday living, through interactions with many people, and, most beautifully, through the arts. Every aspect of their lives is meaningful, respectful, harmonious. They live and work together in honor and respect. The children cooked the meal for us while we talked with these wonderful teachers/parents, as well as with our two friends from the Center. Afterwards, singing, music, and a final farewell. This farewell was a sweet one, for I hope to gather teaching supplies to send to this family. Notebooks, pens (lots of pens), trays, binders, books, and with the gift will come the hope that this connection of hearts will continue.
And, most difficult of all, was the farewell with Sarath. So many, many hours were spent together in class, at his family home, in his office in consultation and during and after Eleanor’s many treatments for her knees. These daily visits for nearly a month were times to which we all looked forward. The difference in age made conversation easy, open, honest, respectful, heartfelt. These conversations ranged along the gamut of possibilities, from college days to future hopes, family and friends, medicine in the East and in the West, metaphysics and poetry, aphorisms and tales, history and legend – touching, only touching the surface of so many ideas with the joyful recognition that someone else thought the same. One quickly glossed over the superficial as minds met in understanding and quickly went deeper, with growing trust and respect. So much was said, and yet, as I left each day, I realized how much more there was to discover, to ponder, and to share. And so the last moments came, spun out until the last possible second. There is a promise, a hope that he will one day come to visit in the United States – the forest and the medicines growing in the garden as well as the friendship with the students who have become family call him there. And for us, there is the hope to return again to study. But, what will that future be? One hopes, but those last moments were tinged with the knowledge that one can never recapture the present moment. And one never knows what the future will bring. For Sarath, there are the possibilities of post graduate work, marriage, research, and expanding the venerable family medical practice that will all come into his life over the next year or two. For us, there are the everyday joys and duties – and a much tighter budget. Over and over in India, it is here and it is now. And so the final moments moved to the end. There is nothing one can say. A brief holding of hands, eyes tinged with tears, volumes left unsaid, and yet, in the eyes, that knowledge that one will never, never forget. A gift. A perfect and unexpected friendship. Family. Something to cherish and protect in one’s mind, in one’s memory, in one’s thoughts and words.
Sunday came with the last minute packing, emails, and preparations. 12:30, the rickshaw waits. We are in the lobby of our home for the past month and all, all comes crashing to the present. It is Eleanor and me with all the staff who have come to say farewell. Little conversations, poignant, full of meaning and sincerity echo now in my mind. “Don’t be sad.” Am I sad? Yes, for separation is always a sadness, and in this world there is always separation. But … there is also reunion, maybe in this world, but definitely in the heart. Sad? Yes, but mostly a rich, rich joy for crystalline moments for mind, of heart, and of soul. I cannot hold back the tears for all that has been given. So many people come through this little center. Every week, there are new students coming, needing, asking, and leaving. The doors open and close. Don’t we all start to look the same? And yet, here Eleanor and I are and it is real. Warm hearts, wholly and freely given. Through the little window in the back of the rickshaw and through a veil of tears, I watch the waving hands get smaller and smaller. Through the narrow gate and out. An end. A new beginning
Linda: Music under a Night Sky, March 21
Music under a Night Sky
Our final farewell to Kerala was postponed a day so that we could hear a concert given by Santosh, my singing teacher. In this concert, he could sing with the full range of his rich voice and with all the knowledge of Karnatic music that he holds within. He was the main performer and the other instruments (drum, clay percussion instrument, violin) supported and improvised around his themes and choice.
Twelve women left the Center at 6:00 (there always tends to be more women who are interested in what is offered at the Center than men), driving a little over an hour to a temple in the heart of Kerala. We drove through small towns until we reached a rutted dirt road. The palms swayed in the evening light as we went deeper into the jungle. We left the cars to follow a small path next to the temple wall as the night deepened and the call of the day birds were replaced by the throaty noises of night animals and birds. Quietly, we go around the small temple tank to the entrance of these sublimely beautiful Keralan temples: white stucco with wooden roof, carved screens, simple, serene, gentle, welcoming, and entirely lit by hundreds and hundreds of butter lamps. Little known to us, it was not only a concert day, but the day of a major festival for this temple. All was lit, everyone was in their best, all were happy. We were, truly, in the heart of Kerala.
The concert took place in a small, tented enclosure next to the main temple. Places had been saved in the front of the seating area for us. Santosh was in the center with the drummers on his left and the violinist on the right. For years, I have listened to Indian music, which I liked for a little while, but then found I became distracted. Quite frankly, it all sounded the same to me. Not exactly the same, but almost the same. In this concert, through the generosity of my teacher, Indian music came into my being. Over the past month, through story, through song, through explanations of individual pieces and concerts as a whole, my teacher had woven a path of understanding for me, a path whose culmination was this concert – for he had chosen the pieces carefully, as a gift to the Deva of the temple, to the people of the temple, and as a final farewell to us. First, a song to Ganesh, the remover of obstacles, and then other ragas, each different, each bringing a new emotion, a new intensity. One saw the intensity grow in the other performers as they wove music around the themes that Santosh introduced. You saw their faces deepen as the melody was introduced; you saw their joy and delight as the melody was improvised, embellished, glorified; you saw their response to that joy in their own playing. A raga for the temple and the central raga - I have never heard a voice move to such heights and such depths. Undulating sound around a theme subtly repeated. One held one’s breath and the body became still, utterly still and intensely content. All is well, all is good. It was one of those moments where one can say, “If there is a Paradise on earth, it is here” and it is now. The next raga was to the gods and the swami. One heard the names of the various deities, extolled and brought to this green earth through music. The air throbbed with presence; the soul, already content in the still, still body, found her joy, inward and upward. Not lost in music, never lost, but found in music. The Names, the soul, the music, the body, the jungle, the sky, the scent of flowers in the trees, the sounds of the temple as the activities continued there, One and Whole. Complete and Undivided. A moment to bring to my heart, from time to time when needed, forever. Finished … too soon. And, gently, gently, Santosh brings us back to this verdant world with the Tilana that he taught in class – a fast, playful tune. He begins, I smile in delight and gratitude, and he returns that smile – happy in my joy. Does he know what a gift he has given? He has opened a whole world in my heart, and unveiled heaven to my soul. The last raga – an apology, always the apology, asking forgiveness of the gods and of the audience for any imperfection in the song, acknowledgement that, even with our best intentions, we are, human and perfect only through the grace of God. We study, we work, we conform our heart, our will, and our soul to that which is most meaningful, so God will give us that sublime perfection which is the root of happiness. Find me a blanket that I may rest under this starry sky.
It is finished, and I wipe the tears. Santosh greets us quietly – how is it possible to say what I feel?
And, we are then told that a dinner has been prepared for us! Santosh had told the elders of the temple that we left before dinner. That was not to be. A sumptuous feast had been prepared in our honor, just for us. Rice and ghee, kicheri, papadam, several side dishes, all graciously served by the men of the temple on banana leaves – more than we could eat. We were blessed by generosity and hospitality, completely undeserved, like most of the good things that have come in my life. One knows that one has done nothing to deserve such plenitude, and yet, it comes.
For this, this was a night for women. This was the night where the women surrounded and blessed the temple with prayer and led the Deva around her home. Our dinner was interrupted by drums and wild singing. I look out the stone screen and see fire going by, five flames held high and a stream of smaller lights following. We leave the feast, going back under the sky and see the statue of the temple goddess, carried in procession, surrounded by drums, another staff of flame, and her ceremonial umbrella. The procession continues around the temple and then stops in front of the door to the main shrine. Men carrying the large flame staffs, men drumming and singing in joyful exhuberence, and dozens of women in line, each carrying an oil lamp, lit in honor of the goddess. They stop for a while in front of the shrine while the singers sing and dance, then, proceed again around the temple. This is repeated, again and again – later with a different group of musicians – this time with drums and that wild horn that echoes through the jungle, piercing, unescapable, beautiful – a call to the divine, a call to meet the divine. The men help the women by filling their lamps. They are the center and without them, there is no temple, there is no worship. Women, in Hinduism, are exalted.
It is well after 1:00 and we’ve an hour to drive. We thread our way around the temple, the sound of singing, of drums, of horn acknowledging the divine presence receding in the distance, and the vision of women and lamps a vision before my eyes.
Our final farewell to Kerala was postponed a day so that we could hear a concert given by Santosh, my singing teacher. In this concert, he could sing with the full range of his rich voice and with all the knowledge of Karnatic music that he holds within. He was the main performer and the other instruments (drum, clay percussion instrument, violin) supported and improvised around his themes and choice.
Twelve women left the Center at 6:00 (there always tends to be more women who are interested in what is offered at the Center than men), driving a little over an hour to a temple in the heart of Kerala. We drove through small towns until we reached a rutted dirt road. The palms swayed in the evening light as we went deeper into the jungle. We left the cars to follow a small path next to the temple wall as the night deepened and the call of the day birds were replaced by the throaty noises of night animals and birds. Quietly, we go around the small temple tank to the entrance of these sublimely beautiful Keralan temples: white stucco with wooden roof, carved screens, simple, serene, gentle, welcoming, and entirely lit by hundreds and hundreds of butter lamps. Little known to us, it was not only a concert day, but the day of a major festival for this temple. All was lit, everyone was in their best, all were happy. We were, truly, in the heart of Kerala.
The concert took place in a small, tented enclosure next to the main temple. Places had been saved in the front of the seating area for us. Santosh was in the center with the drummers on his left and the violinist on the right. For years, I have listened to Indian music, which I liked for a little while, but then found I became distracted. Quite frankly, it all sounded the same to me. Not exactly the same, but almost the same. In this concert, through the generosity of my teacher, Indian music came into my being. Over the past month, through story, through song, through explanations of individual pieces and concerts as a whole, my teacher had woven a path of understanding for me, a path whose culmination was this concert – for he had chosen the pieces carefully, as a gift to the Deva of the temple, to the people of the temple, and as a final farewell to us. First, a song to Ganesh, the remover of obstacles, and then other ragas, each different, each bringing a new emotion, a new intensity. One saw the intensity grow in the other performers as they wove music around the themes that Santosh introduced. You saw their faces deepen as the melody was introduced; you saw their joy and delight as the melody was improvised, embellished, glorified; you saw their response to that joy in their own playing. A raga for the temple and the central raga - I have never heard a voice move to such heights and such depths. Undulating sound around a theme subtly repeated. One held one’s breath and the body became still, utterly still and intensely content. All is well, all is good. It was one of those moments where one can say, “If there is a Paradise on earth, it is here” and it is now. The next raga was to the gods and the swami. One heard the names of the various deities, extolled and brought to this green earth through music. The air throbbed with presence; the soul, already content in the still, still body, found her joy, inward and upward. Not lost in music, never lost, but found in music. The Names, the soul, the music, the body, the jungle, the sky, the scent of flowers in the trees, the sounds of the temple as the activities continued there, One and Whole. Complete and Undivided. A moment to bring to my heart, from time to time when needed, forever. Finished … too soon. And, gently, gently, Santosh brings us back to this verdant world with the Tilana that he taught in class – a fast, playful tune. He begins, I smile in delight and gratitude, and he returns that smile – happy in my joy. Does he know what a gift he has given? He has opened a whole world in my heart, and unveiled heaven to my soul. The last raga – an apology, always the apology, asking forgiveness of the gods and of the audience for any imperfection in the song, acknowledgement that, even with our best intentions, we are, human and perfect only through the grace of God. We study, we work, we conform our heart, our will, and our soul to that which is most meaningful, so God will give us that sublime perfection which is the root of happiness. Find me a blanket that I may rest under this starry sky.
It is finished, and I wipe the tears. Santosh greets us quietly – how is it possible to say what I feel?
And, we are then told that a dinner has been prepared for us! Santosh had told the elders of the temple that we left before dinner. That was not to be. A sumptuous feast had been prepared in our honor, just for us. Rice and ghee, kicheri, papadam, several side dishes, all graciously served by the men of the temple on banana leaves – more than we could eat. We were blessed by generosity and hospitality, completely undeserved, like most of the good things that have come in my life. One knows that one has done nothing to deserve such plenitude, and yet, it comes.
For this, this was a night for women. This was the night where the women surrounded and blessed the temple with prayer and led the Deva around her home. Our dinner was interrupted by drums and wild singing. I look out the stone screen and see fire going by, five flames held high and a stream of smaller lights following. We leave the feast, going back under the sky and see the statue of the temple goddess, carried in procession, surrounded by drums, another staff of flame, and her ceremonial umbrella. The procession continues around the temple and then stops in front of the door to the main shrine. Men carrying the large flame staffs, men drumming and singing in joyful exhuberence, and dozens of women in line, each carrying an oil lamp, lit in honor of the goddess. They stop for a while in front of the shrine while the singers sing and dance, then, proceed again around the temple. This is repeated, again and again – later with a different group of musicians – this time with drums and that wild horn that echoes through the jungle, piercing, unescapable, beautiful – a call to the divine, a call to meet the divine. The men help the women by filling their lamps. They are the center and without them, there is no temple, there is no worship. Women, in Hinduism, are exalted.
It is well after 1:00 and we’ve an hour to drive. We thread our way around the temple, the sound of singing, of drums, of horn acknowledging the divine presence receding in the distance, and the vision of women and lamps a vision before my eyes.
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