Pushkar
This is probably our final stop in Rajasthan. It is getting quite hot now, and we are spending more time in our hotel room here in Pushkar than out of it. But, our little room overlooks the sacred waters which are the reason for Pushkar. The fan whines and only a few people can be seen on the ghats that surround this small lake.
Pushkar, like Varanasi, is one of India’s oldest and most sacred cities. It, too, rose from mythology. We lost our guide books when Eleanor’s suitcase “fell” off the back of a rickshaw ( an revealing lesson in keeping one’s essentials on you and detachment), so I will have to relate the first part of the story from memory, which means that some of the details will be incorrect. Long, long ago, there was a being who had acquired much strength. He was, in fact, unable to be defeated and was taking over all the worlds: subtle, human, and the heavenly abodes of the gods. Even Shiva and Vishnu could not stop this being in taking over and destroying the worlds. Alas, Brahma, the third god, the Creator, had never chosen a place for an abode in the human world. (There are, in fact, only three temples in all of India to Brahma. The one here is the most significant.) In choosing a place on earth and performing certain ceremonies, enough power would come to defeat this malevolent being. A search was made for such a place. It is said that five drops of the elixir of life, held in the hand of Brahma the Creator, fell to earth. Those drops formed the lake, and thus, the site for the ceremony was providentially decided. It seems, however, that all was not well! A significant preparation for the ceremony was to be the marriage of Brahma to Savitri the river goddess and consort to Brahma. A wife was needed to do part of the necessary ceremonies which had to be performed at a specific, astrologically auspicious time. Alas, Savitri was taking too long getting ready for the occasion and was late! Brahma, needing to perform the ceremony immediately, had to take another consort. The only unmarried woman available was a shepherdess, an untouchable named Gayitri whom the gods purified by having her be reborn through the mouth of the cow (sacred, thus purifying). Savitri was furious and pronounced that Brahma would only be worshipped at Pushkar and that caste from which Gayitri comes could only go to heaven if their ashes are sprinkled on the waters of Pushkar Lake. Savitri goes off to the highest hill in town. To placate her, it was decided that a temple would be built for Savitri on this high hill and the one to Gayitri would be opposite and lower down. Pilgrims would go first to Savitri’s temple and then Gayitri’s. Thus, it is to this day.
Pushkar Lake is now undergoing a major renovation. Years and years of sand blown off the desert and neighboring mountains have filled her waters. Major dredging projects are underway, so part of the view from the guest house is of bulldozers plying their way across embankments. Part of the project has already been completed and some day soon (in Indian time that could still be several years), the waters may once again shimmer up to the steps of the ghats.
The city is small and the sides of the lake are surrounded by 500 whitewashed temples interspersed amongst homes. Wandering the banks of the lake is a little like wandering the banks of the Ganges in Varansi, though can walk the entire lake in less than an hour. There are 52 ghats, one for each of Rajasthan’s maharajas who built separate guesthouses in which to stay, named for a specific person or event. Three are particularly significant: Gau Ghat where the ashes of Mahatma Gandhi, Jawaharlal Nehru, and Shri Lal Bahadur Shastri were sprinkled; Brahma Ghat which marks the place where Brahma himself worshipped; Varaha Ghat where Vishnu appeared in the form of a boar, the third of this nine earthly incarnations. People gather inside shrines along the lake, obtaining advice from the Brahmin priests, men and women gather to purify themselves in the sacred waters, ashes are seen floating on a nearby ghat, clothes are washed, games are played. It is all familiar, and yet, not as alive as Varanasi. Perhaps that is due to the heat. I, too, have been inside! On the other side of the line of temples is a little street, strewn with shops that cater to Westerners. Here, one can find a wide array of Rajasthani finery for reasonable prices. And! It is very rather serene for an Indian market. No one barks at you to come to their shop. Few try to strum up conversation in the hopes of showing you something. Everyone is quiet, walking slowly up and down the street, looking or not.
Pushkar. It is a peaceful place. Even after a few short hours, one settles into its calm beauty, staring across the waters to the ring of mountains. After the cities and movement across Rajasthan, doing nothing sounds quite good! A heavy inertia sets in. Will we even visit the temples famous throughout India? Maybe – when it is cooler.
***
Three days have now passed and we will leave Pushkar tomorrow afternoon. All in all, I must admit that Pushkar has been a disappointment, though I did need the rest. I think my expectations of a sacred lake did not quite match our experience. The temple to Brahma, one of the most important in the country, was small. Though the doors and ornamentation around three-headed Brahma were of gleaming silver, somehow, the whole effect seemed a little sad. People streamed in, but no one stayed to pray. I was the only exception, at least when I was there. The streets were full of shops with many westerners and Indians shopping and meandering, restaurants played new age or modern music (a strange juxtaposition next to a peaceful, sacred lake, but the ghats remained empty except during the earlier part of the morning. There were many Sadhu looking men, but few that inspired. And the influence of the west was rampant amongst the young, both men and women - more than anywhere I’ve seen in India outside of the big cities. And, unlike the big cities, it was from copying the dress of the backpacker tourists and not from exposure through a western education. Here, the influx of tourism has not been kind, despite government edicts to keep cars, alcohol, meat, and drugs out of the precincts of Pushkar.
It is not fair to judge a city in a few short days. As in every part of India, there is much beneath its surface – here, perhaps, more than in many other places. Certainly, others have found Pushkar to be a haven, and there is something peaceful about it. We met two women on the bus to Rishikesh. They had planned on staying in Pushkar for 3 days, and ended up being there for two weeks. They had met an Babaji 8 km away in the mountains amidst a cascading stream and fresh air. They had found a deeper layer. And, in the early morning, one could find people chanting scriptures and singing. The peace is along the banks of the lake and up the sides of the mountains. A few steps away, and that peace is at war with modern music, modern dress, and modern ideas. And that is where most of the people are. The peace is there. But few are seeking it.
Still, some Hari Krishna’s chant at various ghats and the bells toll as someone’s ashes are placed in the holy waters. Prayers are heard drifting across the water from time to time and here, in our little room above the lake, we can forget the streets and be at peace.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Monday, April 6, 2009
Delhi (Eleanor)
I am trying to decide how to describe Delhi. It is so big, so diverse, and in two days I had so many different feelings towards the place. It began in the airport. The airport was an airport (imagine that). I know this sounds redundant, but there was nothing especially exciting about Delhi’s airport. I did have a nice conversation with the young man sitting next to me on the flight, but other than that, there’s nothing really to say. So my first real Delhi experience was getting lost in the taxi, at around midnight, trying to find our hotel. We actually passed by it three times (possibly 4) and I suspected which was our hotel from the address the first time, and was pretty sure by the second. But I didn’t say anything the first time because I figured the driver knew what he was doing and the second time, the driver didn’t know what Mom and I were talking about. There was no big neon sign, or even a small unlit sign, because we were staying for two nights in someone’s apartment which they rented out. All we knew was "1 link road" and there was no street address posted. Ah well, we got there eventually, although we had to wake up the owner to get directions in Hindi.
The following morning, we had a lovely breakfast, on the house, before taking off. We’d expected to not have much to do because the Red Fort and other major monuments close on Mondays, but in the end our day was pretty full. We began with the Purana Qila (old fort). This fort was built by Sher Shah, the Afgani conqueror who defeated Emperor Humayan and briefly interrupted the Mughal reign. Humayan returned from Iran after Sher Shah’s death, but it took him a further 10 years to recapture Delhi. I find it rather ironic that, after converting a tower of Purana Qila into a library, he fell down the stairs there and acquired the injuries that killed him. It seems to me that Sher Shah had the last laugh on that occasion.
Humayan was the second Mughal emperor and he sometimes seems to get a bit lost. His father, Babur, founded the Mughal Empire and his son, Akbar, is undisputedly the greatest Mughal Emperor. It seemed fitting that, after visiting the place that killed him, we should visit Humayan’s tomb. It is an impressive sight. To call it a "tomb" is an understatement; in reality it is a walled garden enclosing several buildings, one of which is the tomb of Humayan. It was designed by Haji Begum, Humayan’s Persian wife, and show’s the beginning of an architectural form that would be refined over the years to reach that perfection of design (in my humble opinion) known as Mughal.
After the tomb, we wanted to visit a shrine to the sufi saint Nizam-ud-din Chishti. This proved to be somewhat difficult. The Lonely Planet said that the shrine was "just across the street" from Humayan’s tomb. This is a vast understatement. We found a bicycle rickshaw to save our feet because we were a bit tired and told the man where to go; but he didn’t understand English and he couldn’t read a map. So he called over some pedestrian in a business suit, to whom we explained where we wanted to go and pointed on the map. After a somewhat lengthy conversation, we were off…to the wrong place. We ended up in Nizamudin West neighborhood, where we asked for directions again. We were told that the place we were looking for was in fact in the Nizamudin East. Once again, we were off, crossing big, overcrowded streets on our tiny rickshaw and turning down alleyways. In fact, the whole thing turned out to be quite grand. It took us about an hour to find the entrance to the shrine, which was hidden away in some unlikely corner (I couldn’t find it again) but we had a fantastic tour of the Islamic quarter of Delhi – women hidden away behind shimmering veils or imposing burkhas, men in prayer caps, restaurants and street vendors, tiny carpet shops; I could watch everyone bustling around this lively neighborhood filled with everything that one could need for day to day living, without having to bustle myself. I almost bought a prayer cap from a young boy with a tiny stand just to have a memento of the whole experience.
We finally arrived at the shrine, much to our rickshaw driver’s relief. But our adventure was not quite over. We slipped our shoes off and walked to the door and into a maze. We, of course, took the wrong turn. I think if we’d taken the alley to our immediate right we would have walked right in. But we went straight, up a flight of stairs, through a dirty, dusty, trash-covered street in bare feet. A boy looked at our bewildered expression and led us a little way then pointed down a side street and disappeared. This was, to him, the point from which no one could get lost. But we did. Another group of children helped us and we finally made it.
It is quite a popular shrine. Although the original shrine was built by Chishti himself in the 1300s, there have been a number of reconstructions. The result is bright, 19th-century decorations on an old-style building. I can’t say whether I liked it or not, or even whether it was worth the hassle of finding it. In a sense, the hassle is what made the place dear to my heart – the joy of finally succeeding, the relief of walking into a courtyard surrounding a building covered in gold leaf and bright, synthetic paint and dozens of people praying. What would it mean to me if the journey had not made the destination worth finding, simply as an end to the journey? I don’t know.
After our adventures in the Islamic Quarter, we hired an auto-rickshaw to take us to the Qutb Minar, a victory tower erected by Afghan conquerors to celebrate the defeat of the last Hindu king in Delhi. Work on it began in 1193 and today, although there is a slight tilt and you are not allowed to climb to the top, it seems to have weathered the centuries (and Delhi’s modern pollution problems) quite well. The 5 story tower is nearly 73m high and tapers from a 15m (diameter) base to a 2.5m tip. It is an impressive sight to behold and the carvings are alternately intricate and plain, giving it a beautiful, uncrowned, but still impressive feel.
In the Qutb Minar Complex, we also saw the Quwwat-ul-Islam Masjid (the power of Islam Mosque.) Not exactly politically correct by today’s standards, but that was not something the Afghan conquerors were aiming for. Ironically, the mosque was built on the foundations of a destroyed temple complex and therefore many elements of construction still show their Hindu or Jain origins.
Before leaving, we had a quick peek at the 7m iron pillar in the mosque courtyard. It is older than the mosque itself and was raised in memory Gupta Emperor Chandragupta II outside a Vishnu Temple. The incredible thing about this pillar is the purity of the iron; after 2000 years, the iron has not rusted and the Sanskrit inscription is still as clear as day. Scientists speculate as to how it could have been cast using "the technology of the time" but I say it is incredible how often scientists underestimate ancient technology. Apparently, the Great Pyramids could be reconstructed with the same degree of precision today, but only using advanced laser technology and at great expense. Why is it that Modern Man thinks himself to be so exceptional?
The following morning, we had a lovely breakfast, on the house, before taking off. We’d expected to not have much to do because the Red Fort and other major monuments close on Mondays, but in the end our day was pretty full. We began with the Purana Qila (old fort). This fort was built by Sher Shah, the Afgani conqueror who defeated Emperor Humayan and briefly interrupted the Mughal reign. Humayan returned from Iran after Sher Shah’s death, but it took him a further 10 years to recapture Delhi. I find it rather ironic that, after converting a tower of Purana Qila into a library, he fell down the stairs there and acquired the injuries that killed him. It seems to me that Sher Shah had the last laugh on that occasion.
Humayan was the second Mughal emperor and he sometimes seems to get a bit lost. His father, Babur, founded the Mughal Empire and his son, Akbar, is undisputedly the greatest Mughal Emperor. It seemed fitting that, after visiting the place that killed him, we should visit Humayan’s tomb. It is an impressive sight. To call it a "tomb" is an understatement; in reality it is a walled garden enclosing several buildings, one of which is the tomb of Humayan. It was designed by Haji Begum, Humayan’s Persian wife, and show’s the beginning of an architectural form that would be refined over the years to reach that perfection of design (in my humble opinion) known as Mughal.
After the tomb, we wanted to visit a shrine to the sufi saint Nizam-ud-din Chishti. This proved to be somewhat difficult. The Lonely Planet said that the shrine was "just across the street" from Humayan’s tomb. This is a vast understatement. We found a bicycle rickshaw to save our feet because we were a bit tired and told the man where to go; but he didn’t understand English and he couldn’t read a map. So he called over some pedestrian in a business suit, to whom we explained where we wanted to go and pointed on the map. After a somewhat lengthy conversation, we were off…to the wrong place. We ended up in Nizamudin West neighborhood, where we asked for directions again. We were told that the place we were looking for was in fact in the Nizamudin East. Once again, we were off, crossing big, overcrowded streets on our tiny rickshaw and turning down alleyways. In fact, the whole thing turned out to be quite grand. It took us about an hour to find the entrance to the shrine, which was hidden away in some unlikely corner (I couldn’t find it again) but we had a fantastic tour of the Islamic quarter of Delhi – women hidden away behind shimmering veils or imposing burkhas, men in prayer caps, restaurants and street vendors, tiny carpet shops; I could watch everyone bustling around this lively neighborhood filled with everything that one could need for day to day living, without having to bustle myself. I almost bought a prayer cap from a young boy with a tiny stand just to have a memento of the whole experience.
We finally arrived at the shrine, much to our rickshaw driver’s relief. But our adventure was not quite over. We slipped our shoes off and walked to the door and into a maze. We, of course, took the wrong turn. I think if we’d taken the alley to our immediate right we would have walked right in. But we went straight, up a flight of stairs, through a dirty, dusty, trash-covered street in bare feet. A boy looked at our bewildered expression and led us a little way then pointed down a side street and disappeared. This was, to him, the point from which no one could get lost. But we did. Another group of children helped us and we finally made it.
It is quite a popular shrine. Although the original shrine was built by Chishti himself in the 1300s, there have been a number of reconstructions. The result is bright, 19th-century decorations on an old-style building. I can’t say whether I liked it or not, or even whether it was worth the hassle of finding it. In a sense, the hassle is what made the place dear to my heart – the joy of finally succeeding, the relief of walking into a courtyard surrounding a building covered in gold leaf and bright, synthetic paint and dozens of people praying. What would it mean to me if the journey had not made the destination worth finding, simply as an end to the journey? I don’t know.
After our adventures in the Islamic Quarter, we hired an auto-rickshaw to take us to the Qutb Minar, a victory tower erected by Afghan conquerors to celebrate the defeat of the last Hindu king in Delhi. Work on it began in 1193 and today, although there is a slight tilt and you are not allowed to climb to the top, it seems to have weathered the centuries (and Delhi’s modern pollution problems) quite well. The 5 story tower is nearly 73m high and tapers from a 15m (diameter) base to a 2.5m tip. It is an impressive sight to behold and the carvings are alternately intricate and plain, giving it a beautiful, uncrowned, but still impressive feel.
In the Qutb Minar Complex, we also saw the Quwwat-ul-Islam Masjid (the power of Islam Mosque.) Not exactly politically correct by today’s standards, but that was not something the Afghan conquerors were aiming for. Ironically, the mosque was built on the foundations of a destroyed temple complex and therefore many elements of construction still show their Hindu or Jain origins.
Before leaving, we had a quick peek at the 7m iron pillar in the mosque courtyard. It is older than the mosque itself and was raised in memory Gupta Emperor Chandragupta II outside a Vishnu Temple. The incredible thing about this pillar is the purity of the iron; after 2000 years, the iron has not rusted and the Sanskrit inscription is still as clear as day. Scientists speculate as to how it could have been cast using "the technology of the time" but I say it is incredible how often scientists underestimate ancient technology. Apparently, the Great Pyramids could be reconstructed with the same degree of precision today, but only using advanced laser technology and at great expense. Why is it that Modern Man thinks himself to be so exceptional?
Linda: You Can Take the Girl Out of the Country, April 3
You Can Take the Girl Out of the Country
But You Can’t Take the Country Out of the Girl
The Lake Palace Hotel
The Lake Palace Hotel is one of the premier world hotels. It is an 18th century palace built by the maharaja of Udaipur as a summer palace for his family and household. Its white marble shimmers on the waters (low waters) of the lake, a large, but lovely work of Indo/Mogul architecture. Eleanor and I have gazed from our ample and luxurious window seat across the waters for the past four days, curious as to what it was like there.
The morning dawns for our journey to this pearl. I am still awash with conflicting emotions as to whether we should spend so much money on a night in a hotel. We had a restful time at our present hotel with its beautiful courtyards and kind staff, who were happy to see us in Indian dress. We were even invited to a come to the end of a private puja in the hotel on the morning of Lord Rama’s birthday – something special and intimate. Why leave where one is content? But, the reservation is made and we are committed. Eleanor and I dress with care in our second best saris, saving our finest clothes for dinner. Luggage in hand, we are off to the Palace jetty.
Alas, the details that elude us hillybillys. As we come through the palace gates to the maharaja’s private jetty, we are greeted by beautifully and traditionally arrayed palace staff. We are warmly greeted with cool towels, water, and a place to sit under a tent by the jetty. But, there is no mistaking that we are not of the rich and famous. My Birkenstocks are peeking out from under my sari and Eleanor’s rope sandals are dangling from a backpack. We are obviously looking lost with so much attention, and, of course, our arrival is not in the royal Rolls Royce which often brings guests from the airport (for a fee). No, we spill out of a rickety autorickshaw loaded with backpacks and suitcases.
After a short wait and security check, we are escorted by shaded boat across the lake. Our bags are already on the other side. Hotel staff take our personal belongings and we walk up the red carpeted stairs, escorted by a traditionally uniformed palace guard bearing the royal umbrella to shelter me from the sun. He was enjoying my unexpected moment of royalty.
The hotel is lovely, and unlike the sprawling cities they call hotels now, it is a nice size – almost cozy. The lower floor is common area: a beautiful library opening onto an inner courtyard for the maharaja to view dance in a more public area, a sitting area and bar that had once been the royal court with the maharajas seat and private rooms for the ladies of the court to listen and advise. There are also two perfectly appointed restaurants, one of which retains the uncovered marble arches that would have been typical throughout the complex in the not so distant past. Windows abound and a cool breeze is felt wherever one walks throughout the palace. Through a corridor, one approaches the more private area of the maharaja with its exquisite Lotus Pool. The seat of the maharaja is on one side; this area is the last area where men would have been allowed, even as late as the 1960’s. Behind the maharaja’s seat (now a shrine to Ganesh) is a screen separating the zenana, or women’s court, and another beautiful green garden. Upstairs, there are marble terraces and alcoves overlooking the lake, as well as the rooms for guests. It is serene here, distant, apart. It was in the first moments of being here that I realized the intention of these elaborate palaces. It was to create a Paradise on Earth, a haven of beauty and peace, a perfect jewel in a difficult world. Thus, should all our homes be – a sanctuary and a place where the soul can be at rest.
Our room was beautiful in detail with inlaid Indian furniture and a pillow covered window seat overlooking the lake and City Palace. The room, it seems, was chosen with care, for it is a feminine room. Other rooms we peeked into were different. Eleanor and I giggled like provincials at all the little details of the room: the trays of bath products, robes, slippers, fruit and chocolate, the amply stocked bar, the Menu for Bedding (goose down or hypoallergenic blankets? body pillows? silk or cotton? The list of choices took two pages.) There was even a cloth cosy over the scale and the toilet paper! And there was the Spa Menu – six pages worth of choices.
The first hours here were a respite from travel. We sat in the library, sipping cool fruit drinks and looking at picture books about India. We spent two lovely hours sitting in the shade by the court, looking at the faces and places of India. Some of the places were now familiar, others were places we were about to visit. It was a happy, quiet time. In fact, it was extremely quiet! We had arrived early and for the first three hours, I saw no other guests at all. During this time, it was like being in a home. The discreet staff disappeared into the background, going about various tasks in regal attire and quiet slippers and we were alone with books. Guests begin to come in, some looking just as lost as we did. Most were in variations of shorts and blue jeans, so the tenor of dignity and beauty of form was now compromised. Western dress is so unbelievably ugly and unimaginative. Unfortunately, the Western slouch also often comes with the Western dress. The human form is so magnificent; it is a loss to see it diminished.
Eleanor and I leave the library and the trickle of guests for a luxurious treatment in the spa. It was expensive for India, of course, but about the cost of a massage back home. The spa is in the former Maharani’s (queen’s) private chambers. A bath is drawn with rose petals floating on its surface. Two hours later we emerge: foot bath in rose petals, a lovely scrub/mask with a kind of flour (besun) mixed with tumeric, sandlewood, and milk, a shower and a steam, and a delectable massage. Our skin glistened, rosy from the various herbs used. Shortly after, there is a little tour of the palace where we learn about its history and use. Sparkling wine in the Palace Court followed by a few hours of rest. Eleanor has a bath. I sit outside in a little alcove overlooking the exquisite Lotus Pool. An attendant comes and prepares our beds for the evening and tidies up our room.
7:00 and palace entertainment. A group of musicians and dancers come to perform in the courtyard by the library. They are the best public performers we have seen and give a lovely rendition of traditional Rajasthani music and dance: wailing voices, throbbing drums, singing violin, whirling women with veil and skirt floating, bells tinkling, arms moving in sinuous grace. Happy. Innocent. Lovely. A moment of beauty and joy. Afterwards, a sumptuous thali, the best tasting thali I’ve had in India. Thali is a traditional Indian meal where several dishes are served in small bowls on a large platter. In this case, the platter, bowls, and utensils were gold. (More giggles from the girls.) We dined for two hours, returning to our room to gaze out our window at the palace strewn city, whose lights twinkled on the whispering water of the lake.
In writing the description of our day, all seems lovely and serene, but conflicting emotions continued to play across my mind. A sleepless night. The food, too rich. The cost, too extravagant (even though my parents had given us money for the "do something that you would not otherwise do" and budget saving over the past few weeks). Part of me has been trying to reconcile all we’ve seen over the past week and a half. I understand the need for the massive fortifications. I understand the need for an abode of peace, of beauty, of serenity. I understand the regal need for magnificence and magnanimity, and its appreciation by all the people of every caste. And, certainly, the politics of the time required housing significant guests for long periods of time, seeing to their comfort and entertainment while important and potentially life changing negotiations are underway while seemingly lounging at table and sport. Then, there is the need for employment, something to provide the inhabitants of the kingdom with a means for caring for their own families. Thus, the simple fortifications grew, over the centuries, into these elaborate palaces. And yet, I do not really understand. It is all too much, too grand, too out of proportion. And here, in this land of the wealthiest kings in the world, the temples are small, the art work hasty. All is for the glory of the king; little seems to have been for the glory of God. In this regard, I much prefer southern India, where the king’s showed their wealth and means through the building of temples. They had their palaces, too, with the necessary courts and rooms, but it seemed more proportionate. They, too, employed many, but in projects such as temples which would provide sanctuary, medicine, and schools for all.
Perhaps there is much that I am missing. But at the end of the day, I am happy to leave this palace, to return to something more simple, and in that simplicity, more serene. Soon, we’ll leave: Birkenstocks and tatty cloth bags in the rickshaw to the bus station – and in our beautiful Indian attire. It is always a choice, my choice, to live beautifully, but simply. It is a choice which I renew with passing experiences, and which brings a joyful liberation. The freedom of nature for me, not the confining walls of a gilded palace.
But You Can’t Take the Country Out of the Girl
The Lake Palace Hotel
The Lake Palace Hotel is one of the premier world hotels. It is an 18th century palace built by the maharaja of Udaipur as a summer palace for his family and household. Its white marble shimmers on the waters (low waters) of the lake, a large, but lovely work of Indo/Mogul architecture. Eleanor and I have gazed from our ample and luxurious window seat across the waters for the past four days, curious as to what it was like there.
The morning dawns for our journey to this pearl. I am still awash with conflicting emotions as to whether we should spend so much money on a night in a hotel. We had a restful time at our present hotel with its beautiful courtyards and kind staff, who were happy to see us in Indian dress. We were even invited to a come to the end of a private puja in the hotel on the morning of Lord Rama’s birthday – something special and intimate. Why leave where one is content? But, the reservation is made and we are committed. Eleanor and I dress with care in our second best saris, saving our finest clothes for dinner. Luggage in hand, we are off to the Palace jetty.
Alas, the details that elude us hillybillys. As we come through the palace gates to the maharaja’s private jetty, we are greeted by beautifully and traditionally arrayed palace staff. We are warmly greeted with cool towels, water, and a place to sit under a tent by the jetty. But, there is no mistaking that we are not of the rich and famous. My Birkenstocks are peeking out from under my sari and Eleanor’s rope sandals are dangling from a backpack. We are obviously looking lost with so much attention, and, of course, our arrival is not in the royal Rolls Royce which often brings guests from the airport (for a fee). No, we spill out of a rickety autorickshaw loaded with backpacks and suitcases.
After a short wait and security check, we are escorted by shaded boat across the lake. Our bags are already on the other side. Hotel staff take our personal belongings and we walk up the red carpeted stairs, escorted by a traditionally uniformed palace guard bearing the royal umbrella to shelter me from the sun. He was enjoying my unexpected moment of royalty.
The hotel is lovely, and unlike the sprawling cities they call hotels now, it is a nice size – almost cozy. The lower floor is common area: a beautiful library opening onto an inner courtyard for the maharaja to view dance in a more public area, a sitting area and bar that had once been the royal court with the maharajas seat and private rooms for the ladies of the court to listen and advise. There are also two perfectly appointed restaurants, one of which retains the uncovered marble arches that would have been typical throughout the complex in the not so distant past. Windows abound and a cool breeze is felt wherever one walks throughout the palace. Through a corridor, one approaches the more private area of the maharaja with its exquisite Lotus Pool. The seat of the maharaja is on one side; this area is the last area where men would have been allowed, even as late as the 1960’s. Behind the maharaja’s seat (now a shrine to Ganesh) is a screen separating the zenana, or women’s court, and another beautiful green garden. Upstairs, there are marble terraces and alcoves overlooking the lake, as well as the rooms for guests. It is serene here, distant, apart. It was in the first moments of being here that I realized the intention of these elaborate palaces. It was to create a Paradise on Earth, a haven of beauty and peace, a perfect jewel in a difficult world. Thus, should all our homes be – a sanctuary and a place where the soul can be at rest.
Our room was beautiful in detail with inlaid Indian furniture and a pillow covered window seat overlooking the lake and City Palace. The room, it seems, was chosen with care, for it is a feminine room. Other rooms we peeked into were different. Eleanor and I giggled like provincials at all the little details of the room: the trays of bath products, robes, slippers, fruit and chocolate, the amply stocked bar, the Menu for Bedding (goose down or hypoallergenic blankets? body pillows? silk or cotton? The list of choices took two pages.) There was even a cloth cosy over the scale and the toilet paper! And there was the Spa Menu – six pages worth of choices.
The first hours here were a respite from travel. We sat in the library, sipping cool fruit drinks and looking at picture books about India. We spent two lovely hours sitting in the shade by the court, looking at the faces and places of India. Some of the places were now familiar, others were places we were about to visit. It was a happy, quiet time. In fact, it was extremely quiet! We had arrived early and for the first three hours, I saw no other guests at all. During this time, it was like being in a home. The discreet staff disappeared into the background, going about various tasks in regal attire and quiet slippers and we were alone with books. Guests begin to come in, some looking just as lost as we did. Most were in variations of shorts and blue jeans, so the tenor of dignity and beauty of form was now compromised. Western dress is so unbelievably ugly and unimaginative. Unfortunately, the Western slouch also often comes with the Western dress. The human form is so magnificent; it is a loss to see it diminished.
Eleanor and I leave the library and the trickle of guests for a luxurious treatment in the spa. It was expensive for India, of course, but about the cost of a massage back home. The spa is in the former Maharani’s (queen’s) private chambers. A bath is drawn with rose petals floating on its surface. Two hours later we emerge: foot bath in rose petals, a lovely scrub/mask with a kind of flour (besun) mixed with tumeric, sandlewood, and milk, a shower and a steam, and a delectable massage. Our skin glistened, rosy from the various herbs used. Shortly after, there is a little tour of the palace where we learn about its history and use. Sparkling wine in the Palace Court followed by a few hours of rest. Eleanor has a bath. I sit outside in a little alcove overlooking the exquisite Lotus Pool. An attendant comes and prepares our beds for the evening and tidies up our room.
7:00 and palace entertainment. A group of musicians and dancers come to perform in the courtyard by the library. They are the best public performers we have seen and give a lovely rendition of traditional Rajasthani music and dance: wailing voices, throbbing drums, singing violin, whirling women with veil and skirt floating, bells tinkling, arms moving in sinuous grace. Happy. Innocent. Lovely. A moment of beauty and joy. Afterwards, a sumptuous thali, the best tasting thali I’ve had in India. Thali is a traditional Indian meal where several dishes are served in small bowls on a large platter. In this case, the platter, bowls, and utensils were gold. (More giggles from the girls.) We dined for two hours, returning to our room to gaze out our window at the palace strewn city, whose lights twinkled on the whispering water of the lake.
In writing the description of our day, all seems lovely and serene, but conflicting emotions continued to play across my mind. A sleepless night. The food, too rich. The cost, too extravagant (even though my parents had given us money for the "do something that you would not otherwise do" and budget saving over the past few weeks). Part of me has been trying to reconcile all we’ve seen over the past week and a half. I understand the need for the massive fortifications. I understand the need for an abode of peace, of beauty, of serenity. I understand the regal need for magnificence and magnanimity, and its appreciation by all the people of every caste. And, certainly, the politics of the time required housing significant guests for long periods of time, seeing to their comfort and entertainment while important and potentially life changing negotiations are underway while seemingly lounging at table and sport. Then, there is the need for employment, something to provide the inhabitants of the kingdom with a means for caring for their own families. Thus, the simple fortifications grew, over the centuries, into these elaborate palaces. And yet, I do not really understand. It is all too much, too grand, too out of proportion. And here, in this land of the wealthiest kings in the world, the temples are small, the art work hasty. All is for the glory of the king; little seems to have been for the glory of God. In this regard, I much prefer southern India, where the king’s showed their wealth and means through the building of temples. They had their palaces, too, with the necessary courts and rooms, but it seemed more proportionate. They, too, employed many, but in projects such as temples which would provide sanctuary, medicine, and schools for all.
Perhaps there is much that I am missing. But at the end of the day, I am happy to leave this palace, to return to something more simple, and in that simplicity, more serene. Soon, we’ll leave: Birkenstocks and tatty cloth bags in the rickshaw to the bus station – and in our beautiful Indian attire. It is always a choice, my choice, to live beautifully, but simply. It is a choice which I renew with passing experiences, and which brings a joyful liberation. The freedom of nature for me, not the confining walls of a gilded palace.
Linda: Beauty and the Beast, March 31
Beauty and the Beast
Or in chronological order, The Beast and the Beauty.
The last night in Jaisalmar was an introduction to the next parts of our journey. Rajasthan was celebrating Gautour, a beautiful celebration for women. The celebration lasts for nine days, during which the women fast and pray during the day. Women of marriageable age will pray for a good husband and married women will pray for the welfare of their husbands in their work and lives. In this, the unity of purpose makes a harmonious circle, for the men are supporting and venerating the woman in her aspect of goddess while the women pray for benediction for the men. The culmination of the festival is on one of the last evenings. Everyone dresses in their finest clothes and and the women deck themselves with layers of jewelry. Several layers of necklaces and hair adornments as well as bangles covering the entire lower arm if single and upper arm if married can be seen on all the women, while the men wear their finest turbans and dress with beard parted and combed and mustachio – oh those amazing mustaches – are curled and waxed into place.
We walk to the fort and stand in front of the 500 year old palace, awaiting the maharaja. Six camels are outside the fort, covered in brightly colored equipment: saddles covered in beautifully embroidered cloth and long strands of brightly colored balls drape their heads and backs. They stand, regal and calm, amongst the din of the gathering crowd. Other camels are behind, not as richly attired, but a presence, as well as horses in beautiful saddles and silver ornaments. None of the camels or horses are to be ridden and I wonder why this was so. Is it out of respect for the goddess? Is it because they represent a certain hero or family of old? Is it because of protocol in the presence of the maharaja where only the ceremonial monarch can ride? We wait … and wait … and wait. Wild drums throb for hours as well as the barely audible royal band of bagpipes. Women in saris wait on the fringes while young, pre-puberty girls form a line, lovely in dress and carrying offerings. Women are seen going into the palace with young children, privileged to receive the blessings of the goddess, Gautour (related to Shiva’s consort, Paravati) in the palace before she is led in procession to the nearby lake. Any women with young children are allowed this privilege, for they are to be honored. Two hours later, the statue of the goddess comes down from the palace, clothed in her own golden attire and jewels. She is carried on the head of an elder woman of good repute and helped by men on the four corners of the goddess’s palanquin. She turns once in front of the people and is then placed on the steps where women come to give her offerings and receive her blessing. The maharaja arrives in glistening attire. His presence is, however, is marred by his inability to mount and stay steady on the waiting horse. We have been told he has a problem with alcohol. The procession begins, a little haphazard, which is often the case with beginnings. If we were on the streets instead of right at the palace, we would have probably seen more of a regal parade, but as it was, we saw the last minute tidying of dress and arrangement of drum and turban. Camels and horses lead the procession, followed by the line of girls bearing gifts, then the musicians flanking the goddess. The maharaja is next and all the people follow behind, going to the nearby lake, the only real source of water for miles and miles. Here the goddess is submerged in the waters, giving her blessings and benedictions. Puja, or ceremonies, continue, and then she returns, in procession to the palace where she will reside until the next time.
Thus, we saw a hint of the former majesty of the presence of a great king. For Rajasthan is the center of the great kings of India. Here is the center of the Silk Route. For centuries and centuries, all caravans crossed these wild mountains and deserts, and heavy taxes were charged for the privilege. The towns, merchants, people, and kings grew very, very rich from the taxes of this trade in silk, gold, silver, jewels, opium, zinc, and other precious commodities. And their wealth was spent on building elaborate (and effective) fortifications of opulent beauty. The fortifications were necessary. The palaces are sprawling architectural gems, a series of courtyards and palaces for the royal family and the hundreds of guests that may be present at any time, as well as areas for the many servants and the people who come with pleas and petitions. A few rooms are still richly attired with silver beds and furniture or with carpets and cushions, but mostly, one wanders the empty corridors, stripped of carpet and decoration, and tries to imagine what once had been.
Eleanor and I have now seen the palace forts of Jaisalmar, Jodhpur, and Udaipur – all opulent and all impressive in their fortification. It is in Udaipur that one can really see the grandeur of the palaces in a romantic and beautiful setting. The city, begun by Udai Singh in the 16th century, was built around a sparkling lake surrounded by low and rounded mountains. The City Palace, present home of the current maharaja, also houses two hotels and a museum. There are also two summer palaces in the center of the lake. One was never really used, though you can eat dinner there. The other palace was the summer palace for the maharaja. It is now one of the world’s finest hotels, made famous by its use in the James Bond film, Octopussy. We are staying in a beautiful old haveli next to the glistening lake. It is a lovely and welcoming place with several courtyards and terraces as well as a window seat in the room that is every girl’s dream – a wide double bed surrounded by glass and looking onto no fewer than five palaces. The Lake Palace of the maharaja stands white, hovering nearby on the lake.
It is in Udaipur that Eleanor and I were having our “splurge”, for we planned on spending one night in that Lake Palace. It has been interesting to go through the emotions of this decision. My thrifty side was completely guilt ridden. My wild nature side was wondering why I would go. My curious side wondered what it was like – I’ve never been in a five star hotel, never mind one of the grandest palaces on earth. And my practical side was telling me that I will probably never be here again. A gift from my parents and frugal saving over the past few weeks won, and tonight, we will stay in the palace. Conflicting feelings still reign.
Or in chronological order, The Beast and the Beauty.
The last night in Jaisalmar was an introduction to the next parts of our journey. Rajasthan was celebrating Gautour, a beautiful celebration for women. The celebration lasts for nine days, during which the women fast and pray during the day. Women of marriageable age will pray for a good husband and married women will pray for the welfare of their husbands in their work and lives. In this, the unity of purpose makes a harmonious circle, for the men are supporting and venerating the woman in her aspect of goddess while the women pray for benediction for the men. The culmination of the festival is on one of the last evenings. Everyone dresses in their finest clothes and and the women deck themselves with layers of jewelry. Several layers of necklaces and hair adornments as well as bangles covering the entire lower arm if single and upper arm if married can be seen on all the women, while the men wear their finest turbans and dress with beard parted and combed and mustachio – oh those amazing mustaches – are curled and waxed into place.
We walk to the fort and stand in front of the 500 year old palace, awaiting the maharaja. Six camels are outside the fort, covered in brightly colored equipment: saddles covered in beautifully embroidered cloth and long strands of brightly colored balls drape their heads and backs. They stand, regal and calm, amongst the din of the gathering crowd. Other camels are behind, not as richly attired, but a presence, as well as horses in beautiful saddles and silver ornaments. None of the camels or horses are to be ridden and I wonder why this was so. Is it out of respect for the goddess? Is it because they represent a certain hero or family of old? Is it because of protocol in the presence of the maharaja where only the ceremonial monarch can ride? We wait … and wait … and wait. Wild drums throb for hours as well as the barely audible royal band of bagpipes. Women in saris wait on the fringes while young, pre-puberty girls form a line, lovely in dress and carrying offerings. Women are seen going into the palace with young children, privileged to receive the blessings of the goddess, Gautour (related to Shiva’s consort, Paravati) in the palace before she is led in procession to the nearby lake. Any women with young children are allowed this privilege, for they are to be honored. Two hours later, the statue of the goddess comes down from the palace, clothed in her own golden attire and jewels. She is carried on the head of an elder woman of good repute and helped by men on the four corners of the goddess’s palanquin. She turns once in front of the people and is then placed on the steps where women come to give her offerings and receive her blessing. The maharaja arrives in glistening attire. His presence is, however, is marred by his inability to mount and stay steady on the waiting horse. We have been told he has a problem with alcohol. The procession begins, a little haphazard, which is often the case with beginnings. If we were on the streets instead of right at the palace, we would have probably seen more of a regal parade, but as it was, we saw the last minute tidying of dress and arrangement of drum and turban. Camels and horses lead the procession, followed by the line of girls bearing gifts, then the musicians flanking the goddess. The maharaja is next and all the people follow behind, going to the nearby lake, the only real source of water for miles and miles. Here the goddess is submerged in the waters, giving her blessings and benedictions. Puja, or ceremonies, continue, and then she returns, in procession to the palace where she will reside until the next time.
Thus, we saw a hint of the former majesty of the presence of a great king. For Rajasthan is the center of the great kings of India. Here is the center of the Silk Route. For centuries and centuries, all caravans crossed these wild mountains and deserts, and heavy taxes were charged for the privilege. The towns, merchants, people, and kings grew very, very rich from the taxes of this trade in silk, gold, silver, jewels, opium, zinc, and other precious commodities. And their wealth was spent on building elaborate (and effective) fortifications of opulent beauty. The fortifications were necessary. The palaces are sprawling architectural gems, a series of courtyards and palaces for the royal family and the hundreds of guests that may be present at any time, as well as areas for the many servants and the people who come with pleas and petitions. A few rooms are still richly attired with silver beds and furniture or with carpets and cushions, but mostly, one wanders the empty corridors, stripped of carpet and decoration, and tries to imagine what once had been.
Eleanor and I have now seen the palace forts of Jaisalmar, Jodhpur, and Udaipur – all opulent and all impressive in their fortification. It is in Udaipur that one can really see the grandeur of the palaces in a romantic and beautiful setting. The city, begun by Udai Singh in the 16th century, was built around a sparkling lake surrounded by low and rounded mountains. The City Palace, present home of the current maharaja, also houses two hotels and a museum. There are also two summer palaces in the center of the lake. One was never really used, though you can eat dinner there. The other palace was the summer palace for the maharaja. It is now one of the world’s finest hotels, made famous by its use in the James Bond film, Octopussy. We are staying in a beautiful old haveli next to the glistening lake. It is a lovely and welcoming place with several courtyards and terraces as well as a window seat in the room that is every girl’s dream – a wide double bed surrounded by glass and looking onto no fewer than five palaces. The Lake Palace of the maharaja stands white, hovering nearby on the lake.
It is in Udaipur that Eleanor and I were having our “splurge”, for we planned on spending one night in that Lake Palace. It has been interesting to go through the emotions of this decision. My thrifty side was completely guilt ridden. My wild nature side was wondering why I would go. My curious side wondered what it was like – I’ve never been in a five star hotel, never mind one of the grandest palaces on earth. And my practical side was telling me that I will probably never be here again. A gift from my parents and frugal saving over the past few weeks won, and tonight, we will stay in the palace. Conflicting feelings still reign.
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