Today I went for another walk along the ghats with Mom at around 7:00 am. It is, I think, a good time to go. It was nice and cool. In fact, Mom wore her shawl. I had originally thought it a bit silly of her to bring her shawl, but it seems to come in handy. People, with the exception of most teenagers, seem to be happier in the morning. I had a fantastic time and am determined to repeat the experience tomorrow. To tell the truth, I have never been particularly attracted to cities, preferring the lonely magnificence of nature to any manmade beauty. But there is something here in Varanasi that calls to my heart. Varanasi, with its holy, polluted river, its narrow crowded streets, its poor begging in the shadows of dilapidated palaces – remnants to a faded, but not exterminated, glory. Varanasi, in a sense, is India, the land of differences, condensed into a single city.
Enough of me waxing poetic! I’m not very good at it anyway. In the afternoon, Mom and I decided to go sari shopping and Dad tagged along. He actually took the lead and I had to slow down my pace considerably to avoid tripping over his heels. I was not always successful in my attempts. We’d asked one of the hotel employees what a good shop was and he recommended a place called Jalan and gave us directions. For some reason, we assumed it would be located on the right hand side of the road (the closer side) even though he had not specified this. But after walking for some ways and not finding it, we decided to return on the left hand side, just in case, but were not very hopeful. As we were walking along, I was keeping my eye out for signs, I spotted it. Jalan, written only in Hindi script. “There it is!” I said gleefully, pointing at the sign. Dad asked me how I knew. “It says it there, on the sign.” And I started tracing the letters in the air while spelling out “J, A, L, A, N.” I was quite pleased with myself. You see, in South India, they so not speak or write Hindi, so I could not put to use what I had learned in my Hindi class. So I was pleased to be in a place where my hard earned knowledge could be used and, of course, admired. (Actually, it was not a very difficult class, although it was informative, and I don’t really care that much about admiration, although it’s nice once in a while.) Mom wanted to get a Benares silk sari as a present for somebody (I won’t say who) but by the time we had finally decided on the nicest sari for the best price, Mom had fallen in love with the sari in question. I’ll admit that it is very nice, although not my style. So we bought the sari and Mom has put off until later the question of which sari – the one from Benares or the one from Kanchipuram – to give and which to keep. I also wanted to buy a few synthetic saris, also as presents, but Dad was a bit antsy. I was a little put out because it was supposed to be a shopping spree for Mom and I with him tagging along, not leading, but I’d had fun anyway. We can always go back.
When Dad discovered that Mom still had to be measured by a tailor, and that the tailor was not in the same building, he went home. Or back to the hotel, rather. We still have a few days together. After Mom was finished being measured, we wlked back to the main street and perused a few stalls. I got a set of green glass bangles and two packets of bindis, but was not entirely satisfied. You see, I want the real Bangle Experience. I went to a lecture last semester called India and the Art of Modern Dress, or something like that, which was about how Indian women present themselves and how they can display their individuality while still adhering to cultural norms and traditions. One example given was about bangles, how the bangles can be sparkly or plain, one solid color or embellished with gold or silver, how a woman could wear many small bangles that jingle a lot or two large ones that remain quite while still being brilliant. The professor also told about her own experience bangle shopping. She got to mix and match and try lots of different colors and textures and qualities until she found just the right combination. It sounds like fun, so I will try to go bangle shopping soon. I guess you have to actually venture into a real store instead of merely visiting the street vendors.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
1-27-09
I woke up late this morning and continued to laze around for a while. I finished my book “Nightrunners of Bengal”, took a long shower until all the hot water was gone, and began reading “The Diary of Anne Frank”. I’ve begun keeping my book in my purse so I can read it while we wait for meals. There is a shockingly long amount of time between when you order and when you receive your food. I don’t know why this is, but there are very few exceptions to the rule.
In the afternoon, I walked along the ghats with Mom. After a long discussion, Dad and I decided that ghat must mean stair, because there are so many stairs going down to the Ganges and because there is also a mountain range called the Western Ghats in south India, so it must mean stair, or something similar. It wouldn’t make sense to have a mountain range called the “Western waterfront property” or some such.
The ghats are a world in themselves. There are about 80 ghats bordering the Ganges and each has its own name and serves a purpose. There is the big Burning Ghat and the little Burning Ghat where people get cremated. I passed by the little one, but the big one was in the other direction and I didn’t quite feel up to visiting it. 200-300 corpses are burned there daily. There is also the Dhobi (laundryman’s) ghat, the Meer Ghat where we are staying, and the Raja Ghat, adorned with many impressive but dilapidated palaces and havelis.
At any and all ghats, you will find women of all ages, from three to sixty, selling offering bowls with flowers and a candle to put into the river for a blessing and men crying “Madame! Boat, Madame?” There are lots of children flying kites, and probably you will see a group of boys playing Cricket. Some ghats are remarkably crowded and turn into a sort of marketplace while some are almost entirely empty. It is difficult to take it all in, so I will return tomorrow and perhaps be able to arrange and deliver my thoughts better then.
In the afternoon, I walked along the ghats with Mom. After a long discussion, Dad and I decided that ghat must mean stair, because there are so many stairs going down to the Ganges and because there is also a mountain range called the Western Ghats in south India, so it must mean stair, or something similar. It wouldn’t make sense to have a mountain range called the “Western waterfront property” or some such.
The ghats are a world in themselves. There are about 80 ghats bordering the Ganges and each has its own name and serves a purpose. There is the big Burning Ghat and the little Burning Ghat where people get cremated. I passed by the little one, but the big one was in the other direction and I didn’t quite feel up to visiting it. 200-300 corpses are burned there daily. There is also the Dhobi (laundryman’s) ghat, the Meer Ghat where we are staying, and the Raja Ghat, adorned with many impressive but dilapidated palaces and havelis.
At any and all ghats, you will find women of all ages, from three to sixty, selling offering bowls with flowers and a candle to put into the river for a blessing and men crying “Madame! Boat, Madame?” There are lots of children flying kites, and probably you will see a group of boys playing Cricket. Some ghats are remarkably crowded and turn into a sort of marketplace while some are almost entirely empty. It is difficult to take it all in, so I will return tomorrow and perhaps be able to arrange and deliver my thoughts better then.
1-26-09
Dad still wasn’t feeling well this morning but he wanted some bread and fruit juice, which was an improvement on eating nothing. Patrick and I set out to find some, but bread is surprisingly difficult to find. When we did find a loaf, it was the of the cheap wonderbread variety. Beggers can’t be choosers, I guess. Actually that’s not true. Beggars always seem to choose us! And sometimes if you give them a small coin, Rs. 2 for example, they scowl at you and immediately hold out their hand for more!
When we got tour flight, the attendant said that there was no record of our ticket. When, after much careful checking, nothing turned up we decided that the travel agent in Kumily had either had some computer malfunction or had stolen our money. Mom and I were inclined to believe the former while Dad and Patrick thought the latter possibility more likely. We had no other option but to buy a new set of plane tickets, but Mom and I will return to Kumily when we go back to Kerala and pay a visit to the notorious agent.
We got to Varanasi and were driven along the main streets by a taxi. But our hotel is right on the ghats (by the Ganges) and the streets, if they can be called streets, are too small for rickshaws, let alone taxis. So when the taxi could go no farther, we were met by five porters from our hotel. Without more than a houdy-do, they grabbed our suitcases, tossed them onto their shoulders, and started jogging through the ever-narrowing alleys of Varanasi. I was hard put to keep up, stare around myself as I always do in a new place, avoid both cows and cow patties, and make sure I had not lost any family members by the roadside. There were betel stains all over some walls, making the entire streets look like murder sites. Betel nuts, a mildly soporific drug, are popularly chewed by Indians, especially in Varanasi. It is a rather disgusting habit that involves the constant spitting of red juice and stained teath. Betel may encourage a person to smile more, but it also ruins the smile.
After chasing after the porters for a while, we arrived at Alka Hotel. Patrick and I sat with the bags while Mom and Dad walked up to the third floor to check that our rooms were satisfactory. Mom came down with a disappointed look on her face, but there was little we could do at that point. We were completely lost, had no idea where else to go, and had five heavy suitcases. So we took the rooms. Dad had booked one Rs. 1500 and oneRs. 650 room. The fancy one for him and mom in their last week together, and the budget one for Patrick and I. But the hotel manager had thought we would like to be next door to eachother and had changed the booking to one 1350 room and one 750 room. I suppose he thought it was alright because it was about the same amount of money total, but no one was happy. Mom was disappointed and Patrick and I were quite angry. Our room was both tiny and dirty. Mom had warned me that she and Dad would get the nicer room, but I had had no idea it would be this different. And she hadn’t told Patrick anything. Eventually we got things sorted out. Mom and Dad got the Rs. 1500 room which was still, luckily, available and Patrick and I moved into the 1350 room. So it worked out in the end.
Or so I thought. Mom still looked as though she were about to cry at dinner. We’d tried venturing out of the hotel to find a recommended resteraunt, except Dad who still felt sick, but the twisty-turny streets, the dirt, the crowds of people, and the rumors of Varanasi being dangerous after nightfall soon convinced us to turn back. We ate dinner in the hotel restaurant instead.
Despite everything, I was unexpectedly happy. I had had no great hopes for Varanasi, as Mom had. I merely saw it as the next stage in our journey. Yes, I knew that it is the oldest living city in the world, that it is one of India’s biggest pilgrim sites, that the Ganges was a sacred river, but I still had not really envisioned what it would be like. When we got there, and started running through the narrow streets, I decided that this was the Real India – India as it would have been a hundred years ago. Of all motor vehicles, only motorcycles and scooters could get down the alleyways. I felt as though this were a prime place for an adventure. Even our nerve-racking restaurant excursion only made me more excited. And so, as we ate dinner and watched the people bathing and washing their clothes in the Ganges, I was my usual, chatty, cheerful self.
When we got tour flight, the attendant said that there was no record of our ticket. When, after much careful checking, nothing turned up we decided that the travel agent in Kumily had either had some computer malfunction or had stolen our money. Mom and I were inclined to believe the former while Dad and Patrick thought the latter possibility more likely. We had no other option but to buy a new set of plane tickets, but Mom and I will return to Kumily when we go back to Kerala and pay a visit to the notorious agent.
We got to Varanasi and were driven along the main streets by a taxi. But our hotel is right on the ghats (by the Ganges) and the streets, if they can be called streets, are too small for rickshaws, let alone taxis. So when the taxi could go no farther, we were met by five porters from our hotel. Without more than a houdy-do, they grabbed our suitcases, tossed them onto their shoulders, and started jogging through the ever-narrowing alleys of Varanasi. I was hard put to keep up, stare around myself as I always do in a new place, avoid both cows and cow patties, and make sure I had not lost any family members by the roadside. There were betel stains all over some walls, making the entire streets look like murder sites. Betel nuts, a mildly soporific drug, are popularly chewed by Indians, especially in Varanasi. It is a rather disgusting habit that involves the constant spitting of red juice and stained teath. Betel may encourage a person to smile more, but it also ruins the smile.
After chasing after the porters for a while, we arrived at Alka Hotel. Patrick and I sat with the bags while Mom and Dad walked up to the third floor to check that our rooms were satisfactory. Mom came down with a disappointed look on her face, but there was little we could do at that point. We were completely lost, had no idea where else to go, and had five heavy suitcases. So we took the rooms. Dad had booked one Rs. 1500 and oneRs. 650 room. The fancy one for him and mom in their last week together, and the budget one for Patrick and I. But the hotel manager had thought we would like to be next door to eachother and had changed the booking to one 1350 room and one 750 room. I suppose he thought it was alright because it was about the same amount of money total, but no one was happy. Mom was disappointed and Patrick and I were quite angry. Our room was both tiny and dirty. Mom had warned me that she and Dad would get the nicer room, but I had had no idea it would be this different. And she hadn’t told Patrick anything. Eventually we got things sorted out. Mom and Dad got the Rs. 1500 room which was still, luckily, available and Patrick and I moved into the 1350 room. So it worked out in the end.
Or so I thought. Mom still looked as though she were about to cry at dinner. We’d tried venturing out of the hotel to find a recommended resteraunt, except Dad who still felt sick, but the twisty-turny streets, the dirt, the crowds of people, and the rumors of Varanasi being dangerous after nightfall soon convinced us to turn back. We ate dinner in the hotel restaurant instead.
Despite everything, I was unexpectedly happy. I had had no great hopes for Varanasi, as Mom had. I merely saw it as the next stage in our journey. Yes, I knew that it is the oldest living city in the world, that it is one of India’s biggest pilgrim sites, that the Ganges was a sacred river, but I still had not really envisioned what it would be like. When we got there, and started running through the narrow streets, I decided that this was the Real India – India as it would have been a hundred years ago. Of all motor vehicles, only motorcycles and scooters could get down the alleyways. I felt as though this were a prime place for an adventure. Even our nerve-racking restaurant excursion only made me more excited. And so, as we ate dinner and watched the people bathing and washing their clothes in the Ganges, I was my usual, chatty, cheerful self.
1-25-09
Today is exactly a month since we left, but not a month since we got here. I’ll celebrate in two days.We had an excellent breakfast today. It was both delicious and entertaining. While eating our onion omelets and toast, we started talking to Mr. Walton’s wife and daughters. The elder daughter is 21 and just finished her degree in finances. The 19 year old daughter is currently enrolled in an all-girls college. She laughingly said that her mother had decided that a girl of her disposition should not be around too many boys. She is very outgoing and cheerful; apparently her sister is considered the responsible, trusted one. Mom joked that maybe I would do well at an all-girls college as well. Personally, I disagree.
We drove to the airport, which was a surprisingly long way. We didn’t notice at first that the airplane maker on the map had an arrow and the words 28 km written next to it. Dad wasn’t feeling at all well and when Mom took his temperature it was around 102 degrees Fahrenheit. There wasn’t much we could do on a plane though.
We got into Delhi a little before midnight and called a hotel. The rooms weren’t great, but it was only for one night.
We drove to the airport, which was a surprisingly long way. We didn’t notice at first that the airplane maker on the map had an arrow and the words 28 km written next to it. Dad wasn’t feeling at all well and when Mom took his temperature it was around 102 degrees Fahrenheit. There wasn’t much we could do on a plane though.
We got into Delhi a little before midnight and called a hotel. The rooms weren’t great, but it was only for one night.
1-24-09
I got up early this morning. Really early. 5:30 early. Dad had promised me that if I got up by six we could watch the sunrise down by the fishing nets and watch all the non-tourists beginning their day. But when I knocked on his door, he wasn’t awake! You see, he hadn’t really expected me to go through with my part of the bargain. It was very strange to wait for Dad. I never get up before him! After knocking three times and whispering through the open window, I was leaning against the wall trying to reassess my next plan of action. Just then I hear Dad saying “Patrick, wake up; there’s someone standing outside our window!” I reassured him (Patrick had not, in fact, woken up) and reminded him of his promise. A few minutes later, we were off. We got some coffee from a stand by the docks and walked around for a bit. We were so early that the no one was even fishing yet. After a while, things go going. We even got invited up on a pier to see how things got done. It’s hard to explain. The nets, of Chinese design and introduced to India in the time of Kublai Khan, are simply enormous. It is hard to explain exactly how they work, but I can say that the weight of the net is balanced by about a dozen boulders, each weighing 800 kilos. The fisherman change the boulders depending on whether it is high tide or low tide. None of the nets are owned by the fishermen and when they sell their catch in the market, 30% goes to the owner and 70% is split among the four or five men working the net. Because all of the owners are Christian, the only holiday the fishermen get is Good Friday. Other than that, the work seven days a week, six hours a day (the time changes depending on the tide) and get no days off – not Hindu festivals, not even Christmas.
After we’d seen how things work, the men let dad and I have a go. It was lots of fun, but hard work and I imagine it would get rather monotonous day after day. But they all seemed really happy. Dad gave them Rs 150 when they asked for a donation, and then we took off.
After everyone else had rise and breakfasted, Mom and Dad and I went exploring downtown. Before we got to any of the tourist sites, we spied a little oil shop. Dad expressed an interest in the oude oil, so Mom and I happily trouped inside as well. In the end, Mom and I bought a bunch of perfumes as presents and Dad didn’t get anything at all. By the end, he was itching to leave. We then visited the Matencherry Palace, also known as the Dutch Palace. It was actually built by the Portuguese as a gift the Maharaja, but the Dutch refurbished it and somehow got the credit for all of it. Unfortunately, we didn’t realize until after we’d left that there was a whole part that we had not explored. What we did see, however, was both impressive and interesting. There were a few palanquins on display; they are the teensy boxes in which noble women were carried when they had to leave the palace. They weren’t built for comfort! The walls in one room were simply covered in friezes. The entire room was dedicated to telling the story of the Ramayana. I don’t imagine there was ever much furniture or other decorations in that room; it was decorated enough. Another room had portraits of all the royalty and Dewans (chief ministers) of Kochi. I enjoyed looking at all their faces and at how their clothes varied from austere to sumptuous. Beneath each portrait was a timeline showing what was happening in Kochi, in India, and in the world during the rule of each man. It was nice to have things put in perspective.
The Jain temple was closed when we got there, so after lunch, Dad headed home and Mom and I found (eventually) a city bus to take us to the next town to buy a violin. We planned on spending Rs. 2000-5000 ($40-100). The first violin I tried was Rs. 2500. It was horrible. Disgusting. Constantly out of tune. Tinny. Awful. The bow was worse. It was warped, had no rosin, and couldn’t be tightened or loosened. I was a bit discouraged, but perservered. The next violin was a slight improvement. I finally found a halfway decent (for $50) violin on try #6. After I was more or less satisfied, we tried one last violin for Rs. 5000, but decided to stay with the Rs. 2500 one.
Despite the quality of my new violin, I really enjoyed bing able to play again. I got back to the hotel and ran though a few Irish tunes, the Monti Czardas, Meadowlands, Preludium and Allegro, and parts of the Bruch Concerto. It was fun, even though my violin and my lack of practice combined to create something rather less than that ideal sound we call ‘music’. Ah well. It’s a good for fiddling if not concertos and I’m sure it will get me through my month of lessons in Kerala.
That evening, Mr. Lubin, the local violin teacher, came over to the Waltons and I played a bit with him and his son. It was fun, if very out of tune. Mr. Lubin, who only began learning the violin five years ago, is very musical but has a lot to learn technically. The only part that really bothered me was when one duet was played under tempo. I know what everybody is thinking. “There goes Eleanor, ignoring the tempo markings and rushing through everything!” But this already slow piece dragged on so much that the beat disappeared. I’m not exaggerating, I promise. All in all, though, I had a good time. Both Lubin and his son were very nice and I enjoyed basking in the admiration of all, especially Lubin’s son.
After we’d seen how things work, the men let dad and I have a go. It was lots of fun, but hard work and I imagine it would get rather monotonous day after day. But they all seemed really happy. Dad gave them Rs 150 when they asked for a donation, and then we took off.
After everyone else had rise and breakfasted, Mom and Dad and I went exploring downtown. Before we got to any of the tourist sites, we spied a little oil shop. Dad expressed an interest in the oude oil, so Mom and I happily trouped inside as well. In the end, Mom and I bought a bunch of perfumes as presents and Dad didn’t get anything at all. By the end, he was itching to leave. We then visited the Matencherry Palace, also known as the Dutch Palace. It was actually built by the Portuguese as a gift the Maharaja, but the Dutch refurbished it and somehow got the credit for all of it. Unfortunately, we didn’t realize until after we’d left that there was a whole part that we had not explored. What we did see, however, was both impressive and interesting. There were a few palanquins on display; they are the teensy boxes in which noble women were carried when they had to leave the palace. They weren’t built for comfort! The walls in one room were simply covered in friezes. The entire room was dedicated to telling the story of the Ramayana. I don’t imagine there was ever much furniture or other decorations in that room; it was decorated enough. Another room had portraits of all the royalty and Dewans (chief ministers) of Kochi. I enjoyed looking at all their faces and at how their clothes varied from austere to sumptuous. Beneath each portrait was a timeline showing what was happening in Kochi, in India, and in the world during the rule of each man. It was nice to have things put in perspective.
The Jain temple was closed when we got there, so after lunch, Dad headed home and Mom and I found (eventually) a city bus to take us to the next town to buy a violin. We planned on spending Rs. 2000-5000 ($40-100). The first violin I tried was Rs. 2500. It was horrible. Disgusting. Constantly out of tune. Tinny. Awful. The bow was worse. It was warped, had no rosin, and couldn’t be tightened or loosened. I was a bit discouraged, but perservered. The next violin was a slight improvement. I finally found a halfway decent (for $50) violin on try #6. After I was more or less satisfied, we tried one last violin for Rs. 5000, but decided to stay with the Rs. 2500 one.
Despite the quality of my new violin, I really enjoyed bing able to play again. I got back to the hotel and ran though a few Irish tunes, the Monti Czardas, Meadowlands, Preludium and Allegro, and parts of the Bruch Concerto. It was fun, even though my violin and my lack of practice combined to create something rather less than that ideal sound we call ‘music’. Ah well. It’s a good for fiddling if not concertos and I’m sure it will get me through my month of lessons in Kerala.
That evening, Mr. Lubin, the local violin teacher, came over to the Waltons and I played a bit with him and his son. It was fun, if very out of tune. Mr. Lubin, who only began learning the violin five years ago, is very musical but has a lot to learn technically. The only part that really bothered me was when one duet was played under tempo. I know what everybody is thinking. “There goes Eleanor, ignoring the tempo markings and rushing through everything!” But this already slow piece dragged on so much that the beat disappeared. I’m not exaggerating, I promise. All in all, though, I had a good time. Both Lubin and his son were very nice and I enjoyed basking in the admiration of all, especially Lubin’s son.
1-23-09
Today we moved from Sonetta Homestay to Walton Homestay. There was a slight inconvenience because we had to check out of Sonetta by a certain time and our rooms at the Walton’s were not yet ready. Mr. Walton kindly let us leave our bags in the reception room and I got left in charge watching the bags while Mom and Dad finished some business at the last hotel. Fortunately there was a book exchange and I spent the next half hour browsing. After much consideration, I got the book ‘Nightrunners of Bengal’ by John Masters. It is about the 1857 Sepoy rebellion, told from the point of view of a British officer who survives, but sees his world falling apart around him. It promises to be both exciting and interesting. After I picked out the book I was going to keep, I settled down to read something else, something that I couldn’t read later – Oscar Wilde and the Candlelight Murders. I didn’t get very far. The beginning is somewhat intriguing, but I don’t think it has much potential. Mr. Walton, seeing my obvious obsession with books from the way I scribbled titles and authors in a notebook, also recommended something: The Rise of Unmeltable Ethics by Michael Novak. It looks quite interesting.
The rooms are quite nice. I especially like the window seat; if I ever build my own house, I will make sure there is a window seat in my room, with some comfy pillows and a blanket and a curtain in front so I can hide away from the world and read.
After we’d settled in, Mom and I took off to tour the city. We visited the Santa Cruz Basilica which was originally built in 1506, making it the second church to be built in India. However, the current building dates to 1902. The statue of Our Lady of Fatima made our visit to this Portuguese, Catholic basilica something of a homecoming for Mom. She said, “This is my Virgin; this is Her.”
On our walk around town, we saw many examples of Jewish architecture. The Jewish people have traded in India since the 587 BC when they were forced to flee Jerusalem. Legend says that the first Jews actually arrived in the eleventh century BC as part of King Solomon’s trading fleet. When the Catholic Portuguese arrived and started persecuting them, the Maharaja of Cochin granted them asylum. Today, Fort Cochin and the surrounding area is one of the few places to see a remnant of the once flourishing Jewish community. There is wonderful architecture in this city: Jewish, Portuguese, and Dutch. It is great fun just to walk around. Mom and I stepped into several old houses-turned-hotel just to see the inside, even though we weren’t considering moving. The employees humored us, but I’m not at all sure they didn’t laugh at those crazy tourists, trying to fit in by wearing saris but still gawking at everything.
The rooms are quite nice. I especially like the window seat; if I ever build my own house, I will make sure there is a window seat in my room, with some comfy pillows and a blanket and a curtain in front so I can hide away from the world and read.
After we’d settled in, Mom and I took off to tour the city. We visited the Santa Cruz Basilica which was originally built in 1506, making it the second church to be built in India. However, the current building dates to 1902. The statue of Our Lady of Fatima made our visit to this Portuguese, Catholic basilica something of a homecoming for Mom. She said, “This is my Virgin; this is Her.”
On our walk around town, we saw many examples of Jewish architecture. The Jewish people have traded in India since the 587 BC when they were forced to flee Jerusalem. Legend says that the first Jews actually arrived in the eleventh century BC as part of King Solomon’s trading fleet. When the Catholic Portuguese arrived and started persecuting them, the Maharaja of Cochin granted them asylum. Today, Fort Cochin and the surrounding area is one of the few places to see a remnant of the once flourishing Jewish community. There is wonderful architecture in this city: Jewish, Portuguese, and Dutch. It is great fun just to walk around. Mom and I stepped into several old houses-turned-hotel just to see the inside, even though we weren’t considering moving. The employees humored us, but I’m not at all sure they didn’t laugh at those crazy tourists, trying to fit in by wearing saris but still gawking at everything.
Linda: Ellora and Ajanta, Feb. 13-17
Linda: Ellora and Ajanta, Feb. 13-17
Ellora and Ajanta, cave monasteries in all their splendor. This area has several groupings of monasteries, but these two areas are the most resplendent. Ellora is only 29 km from Aurengabad, whose proximity made them vulnerable to the iconoclastic zeal of Aurengzeb. Under Islamic law and as a protection against the paganism in Arabia during the time of the Prophet Muhammad, art work that portrayed the human form was banned. The center of Islamic prayer is the Ka’aba, in Mecca, whose origins began directly through Abraham and his first born son, Ishmael (versus Issac, his son by Sarah). Its religious importance far predates Islam and Christianity and has been a site of pilgrimage from the times of pre-history. During the time of the Prophet, the Ka’aba had been filled with pagan images of many sorts – not images of symbolical and religious value, but ones of a strange and magical and darksome nature – and this at a site originated by the Prophet Abraham whose message was of one God. Islam came to restore that message in its own unique way. After Islam was established in Mecca, the Prophet entered the Ka’aba and had all the darksome images cast out, with one exception. Inside the Ka’aba was a beautiful painting of the Blessed Virgin and Child. This he protected, holding his hand before it, thus placing the image on a different level than the others – one worthy of being respected. And thus was the real way of Islam, who considers both Christianity and Judiasm as “Children of the Book”, in other words, valid revelations. (In fact, the Jewish prophets and Jesus are mentioned many times in the Quran and Mary has an entire chapter dedicated to her. Islam is not anti-Christian or anti-Jewish and in the empires of the Middle East, Christians and Jews held respectful positions). Since then, the great sultans of the Middle East have protected these sacred paintings. In Cappadocia, Turkey, the hillsides are covered in monastic caves from 1000 years ago, many of which are small chapels whose walls and ceilings are covered with ancient Syrian icons – absolutely stunning and worth a visit. These remained untouched until the coming of the secular ruler, Attaturk, who came to power during World War I. This ruler stripped Turkey of its heritage on many fronts, making the Arabic script illegal and keeping men who prayed and women who wore the veil from any kind of civil occupation. This law is still intact today, and people who have a religious conviction have to live as second class citizens in their own country. His anti-religious nature was not just against Islam and it was during his time that the icons in Cappacocia received most of the damage.
This is an aside to the similar desecration done at the hands of Aurengzeb. Hundreds of years of Islamic rule in this country did not deface the beautiful and obviously religious statues that are everywhere in this magnificent land – these rulers having understood both the people they ruled and the meaning of the Prophet’s gesture at the Ka’aba to interpret it as a protection, for the most part, of these statues and paintings. Aurengzeb was of a fundamentalist cast and in an amazingly short amount of time, statues and paintings were either destroyed or mutilated. Ellora, being close to Aurengabad (Aurengzeb’s capital) received much damage. Interestingly, it seems that it was enough to cut off the nose, gouge the eyes, and cut off a hand raised in an attitude of benediction – these having been considered the worst disfigurements of the time. For this, we can be thankful, for the rest of the statue is more or less intact and one can easily see the beauty and wonder of the artwork.
In Ellora, there are 34 Buddhist, Hindu, and Jain temples and monasteries. The earliest to be built were the Buddhist starting around 500 AD. These 12-15 monasteries were built over a period of time, the latest being built at the same time as the Hindu temples and monasteries – just meters away. (Can you imagine the influence/competition? Studying the sculpture and paintings in the various Buddhist caves, one can easily see the change over time from a simpler structure and statues to monasteries that are several stories tall with elaborate paintings detailing the life of the Buddha, the bodhisattvas, and the tales of the Jakarta, previous incarnations of the Buddha. The statues are also much more detailed, with more carvings of the Buddha and also of others deities from the Buddhist legend and religious teachings. Despite any elaboration, the works evoke great serenity, purity of line, beauty of form, and a sense of inwardness and peace. Was the elaboration an outpouring of inspired genius or the influence of Hinduism, carving away next door? One could spend a lifetime here, answering that question.
The 15 Hindu temples are resplendent in their vigor and drama. Here, one sees statues depicting many of the Hindu deities and religious teachings. The most beautiful of all is the Kailash Temple. Kailash is a mountain in the Himalaya – the abode of the gods. In creating this temple, they were re-creating a center. This temple, rather than being carved into the rock was carved away from it. It was carved down, so that it looks like a free-standing temple and courtyard. Its perfection and beauty is astounding, especially when one realizes that the whole thing had to be conceived and executed perfectly since it was being carved away and not built. Every building, statue, and column was created by cutting away the superfluous rock, leaving behind – as if released from the living rock – this magnificent edifice. Such a work of engineering, of ideals, of artistry, and of devotion. And such are the hearts of the people here – still are.
The six Jain temples and monasteries were the last to be built and were excavated in the 9th and 10th centuries, after the Hindu phase had diminished. “After the exuberance of the Kailash temple, their modest scale and subdued interiors lack vitality” – then again, it is in the nature of the Jain symbolism to be peaceful and serene, like Buddhist symbolism. Nonetheless, the carvings are very fine. One cave was only partially excavated, which was quite interesting because one could see the work “in progress” so to speak. Interestingly, they carved out the monastic cells and the chamber that would house the main statue first, before they carved out the courtyard in the center, working from the outside in, rather than the inside out. Why is that? Symbolic or practical reasons?
100 km away is the horseshoe shaped ravine of Ajanta. Though smaller in scale, housing a total of 28 caves, this area was so isolated and overgrown that it escaped the ravages of Aurengzeb. It is also much, much older than Ellora. It is estimated that Ajanta housed around 200 monks, as well as a sizable community of painters, carvers, artisans, and other helpers. It was Buddhism’s first permanent monastery and work began here in the second century BC! Again, one sees the beauty and serenity of the art forms, an art form already mature and intact, radiant in its inspiration, splendor, and ability to draw the mind and soul upward. The entire complex is Buddhist and was abandoned by the seventh century AD! It is not known why – if the monks moved to Ellora, where building had commenced at about the same time, or if there was another reason (warfare, water, trade, a new site for construction, etc.) that made it more desirable to abandon it than continue there. It wasn’t rediscovered by the outside world until 1866, and even then, the evidence of its glories kept getting mysteriously destroyed by fire and earthquake. It is wonderful to see the images intact, but the glory of Ajanta is in the plenitude of its paintings – paintings that are over 2000 years old. Yes, age has done its work, but many, many images remain, of a beauty of detail and form that really must be seen. The colors of a rich red, ochre, blue, green, and white are lovely, using natural pigments from stone (it’s amazing how garish artificial pigments are now). The white color, which I suspect came from the local rock, was particularly eye catching. When natural light was upon it, it glowed, pearly white and iridescent, accenting the ceilings and paintings and adding reflected light throughout the chamber.
The monasteries in both places were place to maximize the effect of the sun. In every case, the light came in and, through the architectural design of the temple, focused on the beautiful image in the center of the opposite side. Always, this image had light, and its beauty was there to behold from any part of the room. The otherworldliness of the main image was also enhanced by its placement. It stood (or sat) at the far end in its own little chamber, but, instead of being centered in the doorway, it was a little higher than center. When viewing it from the other side, the top of the head and halo are cut off, giving the image a floating quality. (Perhaps if one was sitting, one would see the whole thing.) I remember seeing similar architectural designs in the medieval churches of Europe. I am thinking of one in Ireland, in Cashel, where St. Patrick would have taught. In this early and small church (next to the big cathedral there), there is a nave for the worshippers and another area for the altar and priests. This area was slightly off-center and the floor slightly, slightly sloped up – again giving that area of otherworldliness, an architectural support for prayer and remembrance.
Though out of the way, coming to these amazing monasteries is a wonderful thing, reminding us of the greatness of intellect, vision, artistry, and soul that made such things possible. And what will we leave? The Sears Tower?? That’s a sad thought.
Ellora and Ajanta, cave monasteries in all their splendor. This area has several groupings of monasteries, but these two areas are the most resplendent. Ellora is only 29 km from Aurengabad, whose proximity made them vulnerable to the iconoclastic zeal of Aurengzeb. Under Islamic law and as a protection against the paganism in Arabia during the time of the Prophet Muhammad, art work that portrayed the human form was banned. The center of Islamic prayer is the Ka’aba, in Mecca, whose origins began directly through Abraham and his first born son, Ishmael (versus Issac, his son by Sarah). Its religious importance far predates Islam and Christianity and has been a site of pilgrimage from the times of pre-history. During the time of the Prophet, the Ka’aba had been filled with pagan images of many sorts – not images of symbolical and religious value, but ones of a strange and magical and darksome nature – and this at a site originated by the Prophet Abraham whose message was of one God. Islam came to restore that message in its own unique way. After Islam was established in Mecca, the Prophet entered the Ka’aba and had all the darksome images cast out, with one exception. Inside the Ka’aba was a beautiful painting of the Blessed Virgin and Child. This he protected, holding his hand before it, thus placing the image on a different level than the others – one worthy of being respected. And thus was the real way of Islam, who considers both Christianity and Judiasm as “Children of the Book”, in other words, valid revelations. (In fact, the Jewish prophets and Jesus are mentioned many times in the Quran and Mary has an entire chapter dedicated to her. Islam is not anti-Christian or anti-Jewish and in the empires of the Middle East, Christians and Jews held respectful positions). Since then, the great sultans of the Middle East have protected these sacred paintings. In Cappadocia, Turkey, the hillsides are covered in monastic caves from 1000 years ago, many of which are small chapels whose walls and ceilings are covered with ancient Syrian icons – absolutely stunning and worth a visit. These remained untouched until the coming of the secular ruler, Attaturk, who came to power during World War I. This ruler stripped Turkey of its heritage on many fronts, making the Arabic script illegal and keeping men who prayed and women who wore the veil from any kind of civil occupation. This law is still intact today, and people who have a religious conviction have to live as second class citizens in their own country. His anti-religious nature was not just against Islam and it was during his time that the icons in Cappacocia received most of the damage.
This is an aside to the similar desecration done at the hands of Aurengzeb. Hundreds of years of Islamic rule in this country did not deface the beautiful and obviously religious statues that are everywhere in this magnificent land – these rulers having understood both the people they ruled and the meaning of the Prophet’s gesture at the Ka’aba to interpret it as a protection, for the most part, of these statues and paintings. Aurengzeb was of a fundamentalist cast and in an amazingly short amount of time, statues and paintings were either destroyed or mutilated. Ellora, being close to Aurengabad (Aurengzeb’s capital) received much damage. Interestingly, it seems that it was enough to cut off the nose, gouge the eyes, and cut off a hand raised in an attitude of benediction – these having been considered the worst disfigurements of the time. For this, we can be thankful, for the rest of the statue is more or less intact and one can easily see the beauty and wonder of the artwork.
In Ellora, there are 34 Buddhist, Hindu, and Jain temples and monasteries. The earliest to be built were the Buddhist starting around 500 AD. These 12-15 monasteries were built over a period of time, the latest being built at the same time as the Hindu temples and monasteries – just meters away. (Can you imagine the influence/competition? Studying the sculpture and paintings in the various Buddhist caves, one can easily see the change over time from a simpler structure and statues to monasteries that are several stories tall with elaborate paintings detailing the life of the Buddha, the bodhisattvas, and the tales of the Jakarta, previous incarnations of the Buddha. The statues are also much more detailed, with more carvings of the Buddha and also of others deities from the Buddhist legend and religious teachings. Despite any elaboration, the works evoke great serenity, purity of line, beauty of form, and a sense of inwardness and peace. Was the elaboration an outpouring of inspired genius or the influence of Hinduism, carving away next door? One could spend a lifetime here, answering that question.
The 15 Hindu temples are resplendent in their vigor and drama. Here, one sees statues depicting many of the Hindu deities and religious teachings. The most beautiful of all is the Kailash Temple. Kailash is a mountain in the Himalaya – the abode of the gods. In creating this temple, they were re-creating a center. This temple, rather than being carved into the rock was carved away from it. It was carved down, so that it looks like a free-standing temple and courtyard. Its perfection and beauty is astounding, especially when one realizes that the whole thing had to be conceived and executed perfectly since it was being carved away and not built. Every building, statue, and column was created by cutting away the superfluous rock, leaving behind – as if released from the living rock – this magnificent edifice. Such a work of engineering, of ideals, of artistry, and of devotion. And such are the hearts of the people here – still are.
The six Jain temples and monasteries were the last to be built and were excavated in the 9th and 10th centuries, after the Hindu phase had diminished. “After the exuberance of the Kailash temple, their modest scale and subdued interiors lack vitality” – then again, it is in the nature of the Jain symbolism to be peaceful and serene, like Buddhist symbolism. Nonetheless, the carvings are very fine. One cave was only partially excavated, which was quite interesting because one could see the work “in progress” so to speak. Interestingly, they carved out the monastic cells and the chamber that would house the main statue first, before they carved out the courtyard in the center, working from the outside in, rather than the inside out. Why is that? Symbolic or practical reasons?
100 km away is the horseshoe shaped ravine of Ajanta. Though smaller in scale, housing a total of 28 caves, this area was so isolated and overgrown that it escaped the ravages of Aurengzeb. It is also much, much older than Ellora. It is estimated that Ajanta housed around 200 monks, as well as a sizable community of painters, carvers, artisans, and other helpers. It was Buddhism’s first permanent monastery and work began here in the second century BC! Again, one sees the beauty and serenity of the art forms, an art form already mature and intact, radiant in its inspiration, splendor, and ability to draw the mind and soul upward. The entire complex is Buddhist and was abandoned by the seventh century AD! It is not known why – if the monks moved to Ellora, where building had commenced at about the same time, or if there was another reason (warfare, water, trade, a new site for construction, etc.) that made it more desirable to abandon it than continue there. It wasn’t rediscovered by the outside world until 1866, and even then, the evidence of its glories kept getting mysteriously destroyed by fire and earthquake. It is wonderful to see the images intact, but the glory of Ajanta is in the plenitude of its paintings – paintings that are over 2000 years old. Yes, age has done its work, but many, many images remain, of a beauty of detail and form that really must be seen. The colors of a rich red, ochre, blue, green, and white are lovely, using natural pigments from stone (it’s amazing how garish artificial pigments are now). The white color, which I suspect came from the local rock, was particularly eye catching. When natural light was upon it, it glowed, pearly white and iridescent, accenting the ceilings and paintings and adding reflected light throughout the chamber.
The monasteries in both places were place to maximize the effect of the sun. In every case, the light came in and, through the architectural design of the temple, focused on the beautiful image in the center of the opposite side. Always, this image had light, and its beauty was there to behold from any part of the room. The otherworldliness of the main image was also enhanced by its placement. It stood (or sat) at the far end in its own little chamber, but, instead of being centered in the doorway, it was a little higher than center. When viewing it from the other side, the top of the head and halo are cut off, giving the image a floating quality. (Perhaps if one was sitting, one would see the whole thing.) I remember seeing similar architectural designs in the medieval churches of Europe. I am thinking of one in Ireland, in Cashel, where St. Patrick would have taught. In this early and small church (next to the big cathedral there), there is a nave for the worshippers and another area for the altar and priests. This area was slightly off-center and the floor slightly, slightly sloped up – again giving that area of otherworldliness, an architectural support for prayer and remembrance.
Though out of the way, coming to these amazing monasteries is a wonderful thing, reminding us of the greatness of intellect, vision, artistry, and soul that made such things possible. And what will we leave? The Sears Tower?? That’s a sad thought.
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