Linda: Varanaisi
This city is one that defies description. It truly is the universe, all held in the arms of the blessed Ganges; this amazing river, flowing north through the city sparkles like jewels in the sun. Its quiet majesty sweeps by and contains all there is. Every aspect of life and death are displayed on its placid banks. Every moment is punctuated by the sounds of prayer, of play, of music and drum, of washing, of selling. Every vision takes in every human possibility in all its modalities. One is never away from life, or from death and decay. From purity and contemplativity to activity. From that which is Most High to that which is Within. From duty and work, or from a sublime rejection of every day work for the work of prayer. From the ancient (sacred places and ways of being) to the old (most of the architecture is from the 1800’s) to the modern (mostly is the faces of some of the people). Around every corner is a place where some great personage has lived and prayed, whose influence is still felt and revered. Here, one could live in one corner for a lifetime and not exhaust its possibilities. Every day has brought a different light, a different angle, a different perception. And through it all, the Ganges flows forth, bringing with it the hopes and prayers of thousands and thousands.
Being in Varanasi is traveling back in time. The old city is a maze of small streets, wide enough for two people to go down somewhat comfortably – moving amongst the bullocks, carts, bicycles, and motorcycles like streams of water flowing together. Our days were mostly spent walking up and down the ghats, just being present in this city with no real agenda. The images pass before my mind’s eye, so little with ties back to our world in the west. The sound and sight of cars and automation is far away, and the air is filled with music, bells, chants, laughter, and speech.
Three events punctuated our visit to Varanasi. The first was a short visit to the ashram of Anandamayma, a woman Hindu saint from last century. Her life and her words are inspiring and she radiates a presence of devotion, intelligence, and love. She left a legacy of ashrams and had western disciples as well as Hindu. She was a beacon of beauty. Hidden up a long flight of stairs on one of the ghats, tucked away off a narrow alley, was her ashram and a memorial to her presence. The memorial had two floors, the bottom with a shrine with flowers and a photograph of her to the side, as well as photographs surrounding the hall. A man at the door then showed us the upstairs, which was a more intimate setting. Here there was a shrine to a god, again bedecked with flowers, with a photograph of her beside it. Nearby on a table were many of her personal artifacts. These things were protected behind a metal grate. Outside the grate was a bed with a photograph of her holding the statue of the god – the symbol of mother came immediately to mind. It was a place radiant with light and peace and overwhelming presence, which took me by surprise.
Later, we met a man that several friends knew. He works in a bookstore here in Varanasi (Indica Books) that sells many interesting books about traditions and India. He is of Spanish descent, but upon travel to India over 25 years ago, was taken with her culture and her religion of metaphysics. He has since married here and has become a Hindu – something that is very unusual, as one must typically be born a Hindu to truly practice this religion as the religious duties of Hinduism are based on caste. Through many years of sincere effort and through this contact with the Jagadguru of the North, an eminent spiritual leader, he was able to overcome this obstacle and became one of the kshattriya caste. (4 castes: Brahmin – priest; kshattriya – leader/warrior; vaisha – merchant/artisan; shudra – worker). Each caste not only has certain things to do religiously, but also has different duties to society. Thus, in the perfect blend of caste and adherence to caste, all aspects of society are cared for, and everyone is appreciative of the sacrifices made on every level for the good of the community. This is difficult to maintain in modern times, to say the least, as western and eastern ways of thought become intertwined in all the people. We had a wonderful conversation with this good man, and through him, we had our introduction to the Jagadguru of the North. Matthew has written about this unexpected visit. The simplicity and this meeting was a perfection. He is an elderly man (83 years) who has recently had surgery, so his meetings with people are necessarily brief. We waited in an anteroom, quietly talking on soft mattresses covered in white cloth. Then, the doors opened and light came in through open windows. Inside, sitting on a bed and surrounded by devotees in orange robe was a man of great light. His countenance was like the sun. We were introduced to him, and he said, several times, “Man is not God. But when the Light of God is in man, he is not unlike God.” It is the profound metatphysics of Shankara, seen also in all traditions. In Christianity, it is, of course, the Christ, who is Son of God and the invitation is to be brothers. Thus it is the world over. The people who were gathered to see him were delighted to hear him speak, as he has been quieter lately. His voice rang with happiness and joy, and that joy spread through the room like the sun through clouds. My husband was the main interlocutor for us; I had the happy position of just being able to watch and see, without having to think about what I needed to say and do. There are many advantages to being in a family! Afterwards, we were given back some of the food we’d brought as a gift, with his blessing upon it, and were also invited to have a small breakfast downstairs: rice and vegetables served in a leaf bowl and given to us by the hands of one of his primary disciples. We had seen the places of past saints; it was a blessing to be in the presence of a man whose life has been dedicated to spiritual matters and whose influence and knowledge was palpable.
Our third venture was to visit Sarnath, or Deer Park. This is the place where the Buddha delivered his first sermon. Today, Eleanor and I leave for Bodhgaya, where the Buddha attained Enlightenment – about 5 hours away by train. But it was here, near the banks of the Ganges that he gave his first sermon to five aesthetics who were living there. A sprig from the original tree in Bodhgaya was planted in Sarnath in the 1930’s. Its spreading branches are surrounded by prayer flags, a wall, and a plaque with the words of that first sermon written down. “In the 3rd century BC, Ashoka, a warrior king who converted to Buddhism, had magnificent stupas and monasteries erected as well as an engraved pillar with edicts for his kingdom. When the Chinese traveler Xuan Zang came in 640 AD, Sarnath boasted a 100m high stupa, 30 monasteries, 3000 monks (accounts vary), and a lifesize brass Buddha turning the Wheel of Life. However, soon after, Buddhism went into decline in India, and invaders with religious and political agendas destroyed and desecrated the city’s buildings, Sarnath disappeared altogether. It was not rediscovered until 1835 when British archeologists started excavations and Sarnath regained some of its past glory.” Sarnath for the most part now lies in ruins, but the largest stupa remains, surrounding by the foundations of monasteries and votive pillars. One temple was very large, and it is easy to imagine the magnificence it must have once been. There is a long courtyard, perhaps 60 meters long. On the right looking down are many votive pillars that must have once housed various statues and relics. One proceeds down the long courtyard to a temple, whose altar is the place where the Buddha gave his sermon, and a place where he meditated. There are still some friezes in place along the bottom of some of the ruins, and even the steps have beautiful carvings. The ruins are surrounded by parkland and gardens, grassy spaces and lakes. There is still an area for animals – interesting birds in cages, crocodiles, and … deer – those wonderful spotted deer that this park is known for. It is said that the Buddha had come in a previous incarnation as a deer, here to this park. He was a deer of magnificent beauty and the raja had ordered that this deer would be spared and never hunted. It came to pass that an arrangement was made through the Buddha deer that, instead of all the deer being hunted, that one deer would volunteer by lot to be sacrificed for the king’s table. And so it came to pass that when the servants came to hunt a deer, one would come forward to be killed. One day, the lot passed to the Buddha deer, who, as agreed, came to be sacrificed for the good of the deer people. The king, learning that it was the Golden Deer that was to be killed, came to the park and said it was not to be so. The Buddha deer then spoke, saying that it was not right for him to be spared and not the others. So the king decreed that all the deer would be spared. The Buddha deer then said it was not right for the deer to be spared and not the other 4 legged creatures. Thus, they too were spared. And so it went, until the king promised to not hunt any animals again – and thus it was. So, it was an apt place for the Buddha’s first sermon to be given here, at Deer Park, by the banks of the blessed city.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Linda: First Moments in Varanasi, Jan. 26
Linda: First Moments in Varanasi, Jan. 26-Feb. 1
An excerpt from The Lonely Planet travel guide (highly recommended and used on our travels in conjunction with The Rough Guide) describes Varanasi as follows:
Few places in India are as colorful, charismatic, or spiritual as the
bathing ghats lining the Ganges in Varanasi. The city of Shiva is one
of the holiest places in India, where Hindu pilgrims come to wash away a lifetime of sins in the Ganges or to cremate their loved ones. Varanasi, previously names Benares and Kashi (City of Life – Rough Guide translated this as The Luminous One or City of Light – both of which make sense, but I’m not sure which is correct) – it was renamed after the Vaurna and Asi Rivers, which meet here – has always been an auspicious place to die, since expiring here offers moksha (liberation from the cycle of birth and death). The city is the beating heart of the Hindu universe, a crossing place between the physical and spiritual worlds, and the Ganges is viewed as a river of salvation, an everlasting symbol of hope to past, present, and future generations. The magical but sometime overwhelming city is where the most intimate rituals of life and death take place in public on the city’s ghats. The accessibility to the practices of an ancient but still living religious tradition is what captivates many visitors, and a walk along the ghats or a boat ride on the river is one of India’s most absorbing experiences.
Sometimes, journeying to a spiritual place can have trials attached, and coming to Varansi was no exception. This was a part of our trip together which we were looking forward to with eager anticipation. We had spoken with several people who have come, all with wonderful stories and excellent advice … and we had a person here with whom we could meet – a valuable asset and window into this sacred place. We were planning to stay on the Assi Ghat, one of the southernmost ghats in Varanasi, close to Benares University, and a little more accessible to Westerners. We also had a few excellent recommendations for accommodation. The journey to Varanasi was … trying. Matthew was feeling rather poorly and was suffering with a fever. We had to wait, without a hotel room, until 3:00 before catching our first flight out – to Delhi. We arrived in Delhi at 11:00 pm and had to overnight – unfortunately our plans for Delhi did not materialize and we had to find last minute accommodation near the airport. Fortunately, we actually did, but the hotel was down a long, dark alley with two turns. We weren’t sure what we were getting into, but, after the last turn, there was this lit up hotel with men dashing out to get our bags and others in a marble foyer to greet us congenially (and reassuringly). We left for the airport the next day, to find that they never received our reservations for this part of the flight from the travel agent – who could not be reached because it was Republic Day! (We’re still working on that refund. Again, the generosity of the people here is a lesson. A man in Kumily who helped us throughout our stay is coordinating our efforts for repayment, because we are “his very good friends”.) We had to buy new tickets on a plane which, fortunately, was not full.
The flight was uneventful and we arrived in Varanasi to an already awaiting taxi which my husband thoughtfully (and it turns out, thankfully) had arranged beforehand. Already, I was feeling a bit like the women of the early twentieth century, who traveled with trunks and trunks of clothing and “necessary articles”, as I was the one wheeling the cart of baggage out of the airport while the men found our transportation. Due to the Republic Day celebrations, we had to careen through bumpy backstreets as the main street (main street?) was overcrowded. Now, Varansi has grown over time on the banks of the Ganges and the area right on the Ganges, where we were staying, can be difficult to find. We were prepared for this (thus the taxi). The combination of traffic and narrow streets meant our taxi had to drop us off farther from the hotel than usual. Not to worry!! 5 young men from our hotel were already waiting at a pre-arranged stop to take care of us. Whisk. Whisk. Whisk. The taxi driver said, with a winsome smile, that they will take care of us … and there we were. Up go the bags, and five young men start trotting down the streets of Varansi with our bags – while we trail behind trying to keep up. Thankfully, one of the bags was bright blue, so we could keep an eye on this bright blue patch bobbing along in the distance and from there follow the trail of bags back to us. Terrible thoughts of “there go our bags”, and “what will we do if…”, and “how can they go so fast” trickled through my mind as we trotted off in hot pursuit. As a family, we caught on after a few minutes and spaced ourselves between and amongst bags and porters, who happily made jokes, took a breather, and trotted onward … down increasingly smaller and smaller streets, alleyways, corners, corridors, “roads” where you could touch the walls of the building on either side without stretching, and dodging in between people, goats, bullocks, dogs, vendors, Brahmins, beggars, trash, and the remnants of all the above mentioned beings. It was a confusing warren of humanity – overwhelming, amazing, bewildering, and sizzling with the sights, smells, and noises all mixed together and played on fast play as we raced through the “streets”. And , then we were there! Down a small, dirty, dark alleyway was our hotel. Where were we???? It was as if I was in another century and was definitely in another world.
The hosts of the hotel were very kind and told us to look at our rooms. At this point, it was 7:00 at night after an exhausting two days and my husband was feeling poorly, though his fever was better. My husband had booked nice rooms for us, as it our last week together. Well, the rooms were small, of medium cleanliness, and the balcony view was through a grating that felt like I was looking through a prison door. Of course, this was after a difficult day, and I was seeing everything in a negative light. I was so hoping for a large, sunny, sparkling room with a lovely view! THEN, to add the final blow, we weren’t even in Assi Ghat. We had opted for this place because of its proximity to the ghats and had failed to notice it was on another ghat. AND, we had just found out that, “coincidently” several friends of ours from another country were going to be at Assi Ghat exactly where we thought we were! I was trying (unsuccessfully) to not be terrible and negative, as were the children and my husband. We tried the other hotel options to see if we could change locations, but they were either booked or their phones didn’t work. Patrick, Eleanor, and I even tried leaving to take a taxi and see if we could find the other hotels, but the maze of alleys, corridors, and streets was so confusing PLUS the knowledge that Varanasi at night was a place in which one must be careful made us turn back fairly quickly. Then, help came. I asked the man at the reception if he still had an end room (which he’d offered earlier), which, thankfully, he did. It was much bigger, cleaner, and had a lovely balcony without a grating right over the river. We made a room switch, and I could feel the stress and disappointment drain out of me. This was further helped by a decent meal in the courtyard with the life of the Ganges unfolding below.
Eleanor was the one who really saved the day, though. She was absolutely throbbing with happiness and excitement. She was smiling and giggling, and when I asked why she said, “This is just like it must have been when Sir Richard Burton arrived! Everything is so foreign and different and overwhelming and nothing is what you expect. THIS is the REAL India!” And she was right.
As we got our bearings and over my expectations (really, one should NOT have expectations in India), I realized that we were in the perfect place for us. We were on Meer Ghat, which was right in the middle of the Old City and in the center of all the activity on the Ghat. The Burning Ghat (Manikarnika) is two ghats up the river and is the major cremation site here – and in India for that matter. Then, two ghats down was a major temple where elaborate ceremonies for the River Ganga (Ganges) occur every dawn and as night falls. A half and hour’s walk in either direction will take us to the end of the ghats; life throbs around in a ceaseless array of bathing, praying, selling, begging, sleeping, washing, cricket playing, kite flying, watching bullocks negotiate flights and flights of steps (they can go down steps), and tourists clicking their cameras – which I found astonishingly disrespectful (thus the lack of quantities of photographs of people). Then again, I’m not sure who stared at whom more – the tourists staring at the Indians or the Indians staring at the tourists.
Linda: First Moments in Varanasi, Jan. 26-Feb. 1
An excerpt from The Lonely Planet travel guide (highly recommended and used on our travels in conjunction with The Rough Guide) describes Varanasi as follows:
Few places in India are as colorful, charismatic, or spiritual as the
bathing ghats lining the Ganges in Varanasi. The city of Shiva is one
of the holiest places in India, where Hindu pilgrims come to wash away a lifetime of sins in the Ganges or to cremate their loved ones. Varanasi, previously names Benares and Kashi (City of Life – Rough Guide translated this as The Luminous One or City of Light – both of which make sense, but I’m not sure which is correct) – it was renamed after the Vaurna and Asi Rivers, which meet here – has always been an auspicious place to die, since expiring here offers moksha (liberation from the cycle of birth and death). The city is the beating heart of the Hindu universe, a crossing place between the physical and spiritual worlds, and the Ganges is viewed as a river of salvation, an everlasting symbol of hope to past, present, and future generations. The magical but sometime overwhelming city is where the most intimate rituals of life and death take place in public on the city’s ghats. The accessibility to the practices of an ancient but still living religious tradition is what captivates many visitors, and a walk along the ghats or a boat ride on the river is one of India’s most absorbing experiences.
Sometimes, journeying to a spiritual place can have trials attached, and coming to Varansi was no exception. This was a part of our trip together which we were looking forward to with eager anticipation. We had spoken with several people who have come, all with wonderful stories and excellent advice … and we had a person here with whom we could meet – a valuable asset and window into this sacred place. We were planning to stay on the Assi Ghat, one of the southernmost ghats in Varanasi, close to Benares University, and a little more accessible to Westerners. We also had a few excellent recommendations for accommodation. The journey to Varanasi was … trying. Matthew was feeling rather poorly and was suffering with a fever. We had to wait, without a hotel room, until 3:00 before catching our first flight out – to Delhi. We arrived in Delhi at 11:00 pm and had to overnight – unfortunately our plans for Delhi did not materialize and we had to find last minute accommodation near the airport. Fortunately, we actually did, but the hotel was down a long, dark alley with two turns. We weren’t sure what we were getting into, but, after the last turn, there was this lit up hotel with men dashing out to get our bags and others in a marble foyer to greet us congenially (and reassuringly). We left for the airport the next day, to find that they never received our reservations for this part of the flight from the travel agent – who could not be reached because it was Republic Day! (We’re still working on that refund. Again, the generosity of the people here is a lesson. A man in Kumily who helped us throughout our stay is coordinating our efforts for repayment, because we are “his very good friends”.) We had to buy new tickets on a plane which, fortunately, was not full.
The flight was uneventful and we arrived in Varanasi to an already awaiting taxi which my husband thoughtfully (and it turns out, thankfully) had arranged beforehand. Already, I was feeling a bit like the women of the early twentieth century, who traveled with trunks and trunks of clothing and “necessary articles”, as I was the one wheeling the cart of baggage out of the airport while the men found our transportation. Due to the Republic Day celebrations, we had to careen through bumpy backstreets as the main street (main street?) was overcrowded. Now, Varansi has grown over time on the banks of the Ganges and the area right on the Ganges, where we were staying, can be difficult to find. We were prepared for this (thus the taxi). The combination of traffic and narrow streets meant our taxi had to drop us off farther from the hotel than usual. Not to worry!! 5 young men from our hotel were already waiting at a pre-arranged stop to take care of us. Whisk. Whisk. Whisk. The taxi driver said, with a winsome smile, that they will take care of us … and there we were. Up go the bags, and five young men start trotting down the streets of Varansi with our bags – while we trail behind trying to keep up. Thankfully, one of the bags was bright blue, so we could keep an eye on this bright blue patch bobbing along in the distance and from there follow the trail of bags back to us. Terrible thoughts of “there go our bags”, and “what will we do if…”, and “how can they go so fast” trickled through my mind as we trotted off in hot pursuit. As a family, we caught on after a few minutes and spaced ourselves between and amongst bags and porters, who happily made jokes, took a breather, and trotted onward … down increasingly smaller and smaller streets, alleyways, corners, corridors, “roads” where you could touch the walls of the building on either side without stretching, and dodging in between people, goats, bullocks, dogs, vendors, Brahmins, beggars, trash, and the remnants of all the above mentioned beings. It was a confusing warren of humanity – overwhelming, amazing, bewildering, and sizzling with the sights, smells, and noises all mixed together and played on fast play as we raced through the “streets”. And , then we were there! Down a small, dirty, dark alleyway was our hotel. Where were we???? It was as if I was in another century and was definitely in another world.
The hosts of the hotel were very kind and told us to look at our rooms. At this point, it was 7:00 at night after an exhausting two days and my husband was feeling poorly, though his fever was better. My husband had booked nice rooms for us, as it our last week together. Well, the rooms were small, of medium cleanliness, and the balcony view was through a grating that felt like I was looking through a prison door. Of course, this was after a difficult day, and I was seeing everything in a negative light. I was so hoping for a large, sunny, sparkling room with a lovely view! THEN, to add the final blow, we weren’t even in Assi Ghat. We had opted for this place because of its proximity to the ghats and had failed to notice it was on another ghat. AND, we had just found out that, “coincidently” several friends of ours from another country were going to be at Assi Ghat exactly where we thought we were! I was trying (unsuccessfully) to not be terrible and negative, as were the children and my husband. We tried the other hotel options to see if we could change locations, but they were either booked or their phones didn’t work. Patrick, Eleanor, and I even tried leaving to take a taxi and see if we could find the other hotels, but the maze of alleys, corridors, and streets was so confusing PLUS the knowledge that Varanasi at night was a place in which one must be careful made us turn back fairly quickly. Then, help came. I asked the man at the reception if he still had an end room (which he’d offered earlier), which, thankfully, he did. It was much bigger, cleaner, and had a lovely balcony without a grating right over the river. We made a room switch, and I could feel the stress and disappointment drain out of me. This was further helped by a decent meal in the courtyard with the life of the Ganges unfolding below.
Eleanor was the one who really saved the day, though. She was absolutely throbbing with happiness and excitement. She was smiling and giggling, and when I asked why she said, “This is just like it must have been when Sir Richard Burton arrived! Everything is so foreign and different and overwhelming and nothing is what you expect. THIS is the REAL India!” And she was right.
As we got our bearings and over my expectations (really, one should NOT have expectations in India), I realized that we were in the perfect place for us. We were on Meer Ghat, which was right in the middle of the Old City and in the center of all the activity on the Ghat. The Burning Ghat (Manikarnika) is two ghats up the river and is the major cremation site here – and in India for that matter. Then, two ghats down was a major temple where elaborate ceremonies for the River Ganga (Ganges) occur every dawn and as night falls. A half and hour’s walk in either direction will take us to the end of the ghats; life throbs around in a ceaseless array of bathing, praying, selling, begging, sleeping, washing, cricket playing, kite flying, watching bullocks negotiate flights and flights of steps (they can go down steps), and tourists clicking their cameras – which I found astonishingly disrespectful (thus the lack of quantities of photographs of people). Then again, I’m not sure who stared at whom more – the tourists staring at the Indians or the Indians staring at the tourists.
An excerpt from The Lonely Planet travel guide (highly recommended and used on our travels in conjunction with The Rough Guide) describes Varanasi as follows:
Few places in India are as colorful, charismatic, or spiritual as the
bathing ghats lining the Ganges in Varanasi. The city of Shiva is one
of the holiest places in India, where Hindu pilgrims come to wash away a lifetime of sins in the Ganges or to cremate their loved ones. Varanasi, previously names Benares and Kashi (City of Life – Rough Guide translated this as The Luminous One or City of Light – both of which make sense, but I’m not sure which is correct) – it was renamed after the Vaurna and Asi Rivers, which meet here – has always been an auspicious place to die, since expiring here offers moksha (liberation from the cycle of birth and death). The city is the beating heart of the Hindu universe, a crossing place between the physical and spiritual worlds, and the Ganges is viewed as a river of salvation, an everlasting symbol of hope to past, present, and future generations. The magical but sometime overwhelming city is where the most intimate rituals of life and death take place in public on the city’s ghats. The accessibility to the practices of an ancient but still living religious tradition is what captivates many visitors, and a walk along the ghats or a boat ride on the river is one of India’s most absorbing experiences.
Sometimes, journeying to a spiritual place can have trials attached, and coming to Varansi was no exception. This was a part of our trip together which we were looking forward to with eager anticipation. We had spoken with several people who have come, all with wonderful stories and excellent advice … and we had a person here with whom we could meet – a valuable asset and window into this sacred place. We were planning to stay on the Assi Ghat, one of the southernmost ghats in Varanasi, close to Benares University, and a little more accessible to Westerners. We also had a few excellent recommendations for accommodation. The journey to Varanasi was … trying. Matthew was feeling rather poorly and was suffering with a fever. We had to wait, without a hotel room, until 3:00 before catching our first flight out – to Delhi. We arrived in Delhi at 11:00 pm and had to overnight – unfortunately our plans for Delhi did not materialize and we had to find last minute accommodation near the airport. Fortunately, we actually did, but the hotel was down a long, dark alley with two turns. We weren’t sure what we were getting into, but, after the last turn, there was this lit up hotel with men dashing out to get our bags and others in a marble foyer to greet us congenially (and reassuringly). We left for the airport the next day, to find that they never received our reservations for this part of the flight from the travel agent – who could not be reached because it was Republic Day! (We’re still working on that refund. Again, the generosity of the people here is a lesson. A man in Kumily who helped us throughout our stay is coordinating our efforts for repayment, because we are “his very good friends”.) We had to buy new tickets on a plane which, fortunately, was not full.
The flight was uneventful and we arrived in Varanasi to an already awaiting taxi which my husband thoughtfully (and it turns out, thankfully) had arranged beforehand. Already, I was feeling a bit like the women of the early twentieth century, who traveled with trunks and trunks of clothing and “necessary articles”, as I was the one wheeling the cart of baggage out of the airport while the men found our transportation. Due to the Republic Day celebrations, we had to careen through bumpy backstreets as the main street (main street?) was overcrowded. Now, Varansi has grown over time on the banks of the Ganges and the area right on the Ganges, where we were staying, can be difficult to find. We were prepared for this (thus the taxi). The combination of traffic and narrow streets meant our taxi had to drop us off farther from the hotel than usual. Not to worry!! 5 young men from our hotel were already waiting at a pre-arranged stop to take care of us. Whisk. Whisk. Whisk. The taxi driver said, with a winsome smile, that they will take care of us … and there we were. Up go the bags, and five young men start trotting down the streets of Varansi with our bags – while we trail behind trying to keep up. Thankfully, one of the bags was bright blue, so we could keep an eye on this bright blue patch bobbing along in the distance and from there follow the trail of bags back to us. Terrible thoughts of “there go our bags”, and “what will we do if…”, and “how can they go so fast” trickled through my mind as we trotted off in hot pursuit. As a family, we caught on after a few minutes and spaced ourselves between and amongst bags and porters, who happily made jokes, took a breather, and trotted onward … down increasingly smaller and smaller streets, alleyways, corners, corridors, “roads” where you could touch the walls of the building on either side without stretching, and dodging in between people, goats, bullocks, dogs, vendors, Brahmins, beggars, trash, and the remnants of all the above mentioned beings. It was a confusing warren of humanity – overwhelming, amazing, bewildering, and sizzling with the sights, smells, and noises all mixed together and played on fast play as we raced through the “streets”. And , then we were there! Down a small, dirty, dark alleyway was our hotel. Where were we???? It was as if I was in another century and was definitely in another world.
The hosts of the hotel were very kind and told us to look at our rooms. At this point, it was 7:00 at night after an exhausting two days and my husband was feeling poorly, though his fever was better. My husband had booked nice rooms for us, as it our last week together. Well, the rooms were small, of medium cleanliness, and the balcony view was through a grating that felt like I was looking through a prison door. Of course, this was after a difficult day, and I was seeing everything in a negative light. I was so hoping for a large, sunny, sparkling room with a lovely view! THEN, to add the final blow, we weren’t even in Assi Ghat. We had opted for this place because of its proximity to the ghats and had failed to notice it was on another ghat. AND, we had just found out that, “coincidently” several friends of ours from another country were going to be at Assi Ghat exactly where we thought we were! I was trying (unsuccessfully) to not be terrible and negative, as were the children and my husband. We tried the other hotel options to see if we could change locations, but they were either booked or their phones didn’t work. Patrick, Eleanor, and I even tried leaving to take a taxi and see if we could find the other hotels, but the maze of alleys, corridors, and streets was so confusing PLUS the knowledge that Varanasi at night was a place in which one must be careful made us turn back fairly quickly. Then, help came. I asked the man at the reception if he still had an end room (which he’d offered earlier), which, thankfully, he did. It was much bigger, cleaner, and had a lovely balcony without a grating right over the river. We made a room switch, and I could feel the stress and disappointment drain out of me. This was further helped by a decent meal in the courtyard with the life of the Ganges unfolding below.
Eleanor was the one who really saved the day, though. She was absolutely throbbing with happiness and excitement. She was smiling and giggling, and when I asked why she said, “This is just like it must have been when Sir Richard Burton arrived! Everything is so foreign and different and overwhelming and nothing is what you expect. THIS is the REAL India!” And she was right.
As we got our bearings and over my expectations (really, one should NOT have expectations in India), I realized that we were in the perfect place for us. We were on Meer Ghat, which was right in the middle of the Old City and in the center of all the activity on the Ghat. The Burning Ghat (Manikarnika) is two ghats up the river and is the major cremation site here – and in India for that matter. Then, two ghats down was a major temple where elaborate ceremonies for the River Ganga (Ganges) occur every dawn and as night falls. A half and hour’s walk in either direction will take us to the end of the ghats; life throbs around in a ceaseless array of bathing, praying, selling, begging, sleeping, washing, cricket playing, kite flying, watching bullocks negotiate flights and flights of steps (they can go down steps), and tourists clicking their cameras – which I found astonishingly disrespectful (thus the lack of quantities of photographs of people). Then again, I’m not sure who stared at whom more – the tourists staring at the Indians or the Indians staring at the tourists.
Linda: First Moments in Varanasi, Jan. 26-Feb. 1
An excerpt from The Lonely Planet travel guide (highly recommended and used on our travels in conjunction with The Rough Guide) describes Varanasi as follows:
Few places in India are as colorful, charismatic, or spiritual as the
bathing ghats lining the Ganges in Varanasi. The city of Shiva is one
of the holiest places in India, where Hindu pilgrims come to wash away a lifetime of sins in the Ganges or to cremate their loved ones. Varanasi, previously names Benares and Kashi (City of Life – Rough Guide translated this as The Luminous One or City of Light – both of which make sense, but I’m not sure which is correct) – it was renamed after the Vaurna and Asi Rivers, which meet here – has always been an auspicious place to die, since expiring here offers moksha (liberation from the cycle of birth and death). The city is the beating heart of the Hindu universe, a crossing place between the physical and spiritual worlds, and the Ganges is viewed as a river of salvation, an everlasting symbol of hope to past, present, and future generations. The magical but sometime overwhelming city is where the most intimate rituals of life and death take place in public on the city’s ghats. The accessibility to the practices of an ancient but still living religious tradition is what captivates many visitors, and a walk along the ghats or a boat ride on the river is one of India’s most absorbing experiences.
Sometimes, journeying to a spiritual place can have trials attached, and coming to Varansi was no exception. This was a part of our trip together which we were looking forward to with eager anticipation. We had spoken with several people who have come, all with wonderful stories and excellent advice … and we had a person here with whom we could meet – a valuable asset and window into this sacred place. We were planning to stay on the Assi Ghat, one of the southernmost ghats in Varanasi, close to Benares University, and a little more accessible to Westerners. We also had a few excellent recommendations for accommodation. The journey to Varanasi was … trying. Matthew was feeling rather poorly and was suffering with a fever. We had to wait, without a hotel room, until 3:00 before catching our first flight out – to Delhi. We arrived in Delhi at 11:00 pm and had to overnight – unfortunately our plans for Delhi did not materialize and we had to find last minute accommodation near the airport. Fortunately, we actually did, but the hotel was down a long, dark alley with two turns. We weren’t sure what we were getting into, but, after the last turn, there was this lit up hotel with men dashing out to get our bags and others in a marble foyer to greet us congenially (and reassuringly). We left for the airport the next day, to find that they never received our reservations for this part of the flight from the travel agent – who could not be reached because it was Republic Day! (We’re still working on that refund. Again, the generosity of the people here is a lesson. A man in Kumily who helped us throughout our stay is coordinating our efforts for repayment, because we are “his very good friends”.) We had to buy new tickets on a plane which, fortunately, was not full.
The flight was uneventful and we arrived in Varanasi to an already awaiting taxi which my husband thoughtfully (and it turns out, thankfully) had arranged beforehand. Already, I was feeling a bit like the women of the early twentieth century, who traveled with trunks and trunks of clothing and “necessary articles”, as I was the one wheeling the cart of baggage out of the airport while the men found our transportation. Due to the Republic Day celebrations, we had to careen through bumpy backstreets as the main street (main street?) was overcrowded. Now, Varansi has grown over time on the banks of the Ganges and the area right on the Ganges, where we were staying, can be difficult to find. We were prepared for this (thus the taxi). The combination of traffic and narrow streets meant our taxi had to drop us off farther from the hotel than usual. Not to worry!! 5 young men from our hotel were already waiting at a pre-arranged stop to take care of us. Whisk. Whisk. Whisk. The taxi driver said, with a winsome smile, that they will take care of us … and there we were. Up go the bags, and five young men start trotting down the streets of Varansi with our bags – while we trail behind trying to keep up. Thankfully, one of the bags was bright blue, so we could keep an eye on this bright blue patch bobbing along in the distance and from there follow the trail of bags back to us. Terrible thoughts of “there go our bags”, and “what will we do if…”, and “how can they go so fast” trickled through my mind as we trotted off in hot pursuit. As a family, we caught on after a few minutes and spaced ourselves between and amongst bags and porters, who happily made jokes, took a breather, and trotted onward … down increasingly smaller and smaller streets, alleyways, corners, corridors, “roads” where you could touch the walls of the building on either side without stretching, and dodging in between people, goats, bullocks, dogs, vendors, Brahmins, beggars, trash, and the remnants of all the above mentioned beings. It was a confusing warren of humanity – overwhelming, amazing, bewildering, and sizzling with the sights, smells, and noises all mixed together and played on fast play as we raced through the “streets”. And , then we were there! Down a small, dirty, dark alleyway was our hotel. Where were we???? It was as if I was in another century and was definitely in another world.
The hosts of the hotel were very kind and told us to look at our rooms. At this point, it was 7:00 at night after an exhausting two days and my husband was feeling poorly, though his fever was better. My husband had booked nice rooms for us, as it our last week together. Well, the rooms were small, of medium cleanliness, and the balcony view was through a grating that felt like I was looking through a prison door. Of course, this was after a difficult day, and I was seeing everything in a negative light. I was so hoping for a large, sunny, sparkling room with a lovely view! THEN, to add the final blow, we weren’t even in Assi Ghat. We had opted for this place because of its proximity to the ghats and had failed to notice it was on another ghat. AND, we had just found out that, “coincidently” several friends of ours from another country were going to be at Assi Ghat exactly where we thought we were! I was trying (unsuccessfully) to not be terrible and negative, as were the children and my husband. We tried the other hotel options to see if we could change locations, but they were either booked or their phones didn’t work. Patrick, Eleanor, and I even tried leaving to take a taxi and see if we could find the other hotels, but the maze of alleys, corridors, and streets was so confusing PLUS the knowledge that Varanasi at night was a place in which one must be careful made us turn back fairly quickly. Then, help came. I asked the man at the reception if he still had an end room (which he’d offered earlier), which, thankfully, he did. It was much bigger, cleaner, and had a lovely balcony without a grating right over the river. We made a room switch, and I could feel the stress and disappointment drain out of me. This was further helped by a decent meal in the courtyard with the life of the Ganges unfolding below.
Eleanor was the one who really saved the day, though. She was absolutely throbbing with happiness and excitement. She was smiling and giggling, and when I asked why she said, “This is just like it must have been when Sir Richard Burton arrived! Everything is so foreign and different and overwhelming and nothing is what you expect. THIS is the REAL India!” And she was right.
As we got our bearings and over my expectations (really, one should NOT have expectations in India), I realized that we were in the perfect place for us. We were on Meer Ghat, which was right in the middle of the Old City and in the center of all the activity on the Ghat. The Burning Ghat (Manikarnika) is two ghats up the river and is the major cremation site here – and in India for that matter. Then, two ghats down was a major temple where elaborate ceremonies for the River Ganga (Ganges) occur every dawn and as night falls. A half and hour’s walk in either direction will take us to the end of the ghats; life throbs around in a ceaseless array of bathing, praying, selling, begging, sleeping, washing, cricket playing, kite flying, watching bullocks negotiate flights and flights of steps (they can go down steps), and tourists clicking their cameras – which I found astonishingly disrespectful (thus the lack of quantities of photographs of people). Then again, I’m not sure who stared at whom more – the tourists staring at the Indians or the Indians staring at the tourists.
Matthew Feb 3, 09
Well we have successfully taken a train journey. Despite the fact that at least 3 different taxi's were arranged to take us to the station at Mughal Serai outside Varanasi when we finally hoisted our bags to shoulder in the company of a boy from the hotel and braved the sheer mayham of the second day of the sarasvati festival which featured crowds of teenage boys dancing in group in front of lights and speakers pushing out huge volumes of sound being pushed down the strrts by auto rickshaws anand some kind of scaffolding structure there was no taxi where it was expected and we were immediately set upon by touts offering to gety us to the station despite the bridge outages and only just in time for our train if we left now for only twice the usual taxi fee and this for an auto rickshaw - a big new one.Our boy left us to make more negotiations and eventyually returned and we ran throught the steets with a driver who had been there all the time and were deposited in a small dented subcompact and driven via some secret back route the wrong way along crumbling bridges - the bridge was out and arrived in half the time we had originally been quoted. Then to the platform and trying to understand the announcements. Eventually a young couple from the Czech repbulic sought our reassurance that we were on the right platfoem for their train to Bangalore but almost immediately they told us that the platform had been changed and with no further verification we scurried across the to an arriving train hrftrd on our weighty bags and were trying to find our sears when I reallized the train was in motion. Without those Czecks we would still be waiting. the rest of the trip was fairly uneventful. We met a number of nice people - some engineering students and a computer engineer from Bangalore named Snoji, a Christion, and we had an interesting discussion obout the Divine Unity and how it appears in the various true faiths.. The food and the sleeping were surprisingly good and we are now in Chennai - have just finished a short shopping spree undertaken by using local trains - 1 rupee per station . we plan to get to the airport the same way tomorrow. I need to call the airline having a message to do so from Linda and Eleanor who are now on their own path - may God Bless their journey. I had neant to mention in the previous post how happy we had all been after our darshan with the jadaguru of the North.
For Now - I still have some more notes for topics for posts and I do intend to make them up when I get home.
Matthew
For Now - I still have some more notes for topics for posts and I do intend to make them up when I get home.
Matthew
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Matthew: Varanasi
So we are nearing the end of our trip, Patrick and I. I have been under the weather for a while but am now quite recovered. My attempts to meet with and participate with schools have not been very successful. But I wanted to describe a little bit a wonderful experience for us yesterday. We managed to be offered an audience - darshan - with the Jadaguru of the North who is staying in Varanasi while he is recovering from pneumaonia. We offered him fruit which he received very graciously before returning a piece to each of us as prasad - blessing. He is an older man with flowing grey hair and beard - stronly build and a radiant and warm but strong face. He immediately made us feel comfortable by talkinfg of spirirtual matters which would be familiar to us. He then repeated several times that man is not God but when the light of God shines through hime he is not other than God. Two of his disciples tried to rephrase this to make sure that we understood. I ventured that it was similar to Jesus saying "Why callest thou me good ...and they immediately concurred finishing the biblical quotation for me. The Sage, whose name I do not know even yet, invited us to have breakfast which was received from the hands of one of his chief disciples. It was a simple dish of rice balls mixed in rice with herbs and spices. After this encounter and bidding farewell to the Spanish Gentleman who had effected the introduction we retraced our steps down beside a temple and onto the ghats - the bathing steps which form thethe city side of the river Ganges. It was still early morning anfd a huge amount of activity with people bathing, chanting, teaching, and vendors setting up for the days business - also children going to school.
Today we have just gotten back from a visit to the Deer Park where the Buddha gave his first sermons just 8 miles from Varanasi. It is a Peaceful spot which was as well after the hectic drive throught the noise and dirt and chaos of the traffic. It appears the the two strams of opposite moving traffic are like streams of water which spread out and run together and one has to remind oneself that these streams are composed of steel and flesh and blodd.
Matthew Signing off
Today we have just gotten back from a visit to the Deer Park where the Buddha gave his first sermons just 8 miles from Varanasi. It is a Peaceful spot which was as well after the hectic drive throught the noise and dirt and chaos of the traffic. It appears the the two strams of opposite moving traffic are like streams of water which spread out and run together and one has to remind oneself that these streams are composed of steel and flesh and blodd.
Matthew Signing off
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Linda, Fort Cochin (Kochi): A Walk into Medieval Europe
Fort Cochin (Kochi) – A Walk into Medieval Europe
Our last days in Kerala are spent here in the old trading port of Fort Cochin, the old part of the modern city of Kochi. It reminds me a little of the layout of Istanbul, where the old part of town is relatively intact and the modern city farther away - in this case, over a bridge away. Visitors can stay in lovely, restored homes or mansions and visit all the old places of interest, along windy streets small enough that only bicycles and autorickshaw and small cars are seen, all within a few blocks. It really is a walk in old Europe, just wandering the streets. Each boutique or café is an example of the old architecture and woodwork from centuries ago, different doors holding a different surprise inside. It doesn’t feel much like India, except for the saris of the local people and despite seeing a Bollywood film being recorded on the streets – and there are many tourists (and many sellers of things – again, having the sari is saving us a lot of "selling"). The city actually has two older parts, nearby Mattancherry, with its old Jewish section and synagogue as well as a Jain temple and Fort Cochin. Another unique feature of Fort Cochin are the old Chinese fishing nets still in daily use along the sea side - Eleanor and Matthew had the opportunity to help lower one of these nets!. These have many arched poles (like and octopus) operated by weights and levers and are efficient means for gathering fish, requiring at least four men to operate. It is said that the idea came with trading with Kubla Khan in the 1400’s. At 5:00 in the evening, the streets are lined with lovely fish, octopus, squid, all sizes and shapes, packed in ice and ready for sale.
Our first area of exploration was around our hotel. We stayed in a lovely room on Princess Street, the oldest street in the city. Shoes were left at the door, and the proprietor was a kind and gracious gentleman of great dignity. We are treated with such kindness and respect, partly because the people here are so kind and gracious and partly out of appreciation for our dress. We could only stay there one night and moved next door to the home of Walton and his family. Again, a wonderful family of Anglo-Indian descent and a Christian. Walton has been very helpful in getting a violin for Eleanor. He called a friend of his who teaches classical Western music who put us in touch with a good shop via our first trip on the local, city buses. Then, once at the shop, we called the music teacher who spoke to the clerks to make sure we were given good choices and prices. Truly, I am being given many, many lessons in the art of giving. Eleanor and I are invited, violin in hand, to meet the music teacher this evening. He was very excited to know that Eleanor had an extensive background. SO, our first real invitation to an Indian home!
Kochi was founded in 1341 when a flood created a natural safe port. In 1405, the royal family made it their new base, after which the city expanded rapidly, attracting Christian, Jewish, and Arab settlers. It was here, in the early 1500’s, that Vasco de Gama landed in his historic voyage from Portugal. He was buried here in 1524 for 14 years in the Church of St. Francis, the oldest church in India and built in 1503, and the title deeds, written on palm leaf, are still kept inside. The church’s original wood structure was replaced by stone in mid 1500’s. The façade, with its multi-curved sides became the model for most Christian churches in India. After 14 years, de Gama's remains were taken to Portugal, where they are to this day. The tombstone showing his place of rest is still to be seen in the church, as are many, many old tombstones, going back well into the 1500’s. The tombstones, like tombstones everywhere, reflect the history of this interesting area. The oldest tombstones have shields engraved on top with the heraldic devices of the knight the stone was commemorating. The words are chiseled in Latin, in the large, clear letters of the medieval period. Then, in 1663, the Dutch East India Company took over the area. All the churches and convents, with the exception of St. Francis, were destroyed. New tombstones were laid in the church – now in Dutch and with rounder script. The church became Anglican in 1795 and since 1949 has been attached to the Church of South India. The church is a simple and beautiful structure, with a lovely alter area and cross in stained glass above.
The other main church here in Old Fort Cochin is the Santa Cruz Cathedral. It is a Catholic Church, newly built in 1902 on the site of an old church. For me, it was an interesting surprise, as the church has retained its Portuguese flavor, including a shrine to Our Lady of Fatima, a miraculous apparition of the Blessed Virgin in Portugal around 1917. It is this area from which my family came and the church I attended as a small child was also dedicated to her. Many, many of the old people in my neighborhood in Massachusetts had either seen, or had family who saw, this apparition, so she was a very important part of our community. And here she was again! It was a little like going home, and my childhood swelled up and gushed forth. Eleanor handed me a candle, and a prayer was said for our loved ones at home, especially those in great need. The church is done in pastel colors in a Indo-Romano-Rococo style of decoration, with the whirling sun of the apparition behind the altar. The church has a convent school attached. As we entered the courtyard of the church, the children were at lunch and several girls waved and greeted us in their sing-song voices. When we left, I heard them doing group recitation of rote lessons, something quite different from the way we teach in America now. The church schools are one of the better educational establishments in India, outside of the expensive, elite schools (1000 rupee spending money each day – about $25 in US) also available. The government schools, as mentioned earlier, tend to be very poor in quality and families will do all they can to scrape together the money to send their children to school. Hearing the voices of the children added to the sense of homesickness – I’m certainly missing my little ones back home! Eleanor, too, is relishing in the wonder, but also feels the loss of the company of those dear to her. Travel gives much, and one thing is a sense of the beauty and love that is one’s home.
The other area near Fort Cochin is Mattancherry. This is where the old Jewish quarter is, already discussed a little earlier, and again, reminiscent of the Jewish quarter in Istanbul. I remember seeing some of the little screened balconies in Chennai, and wonder if that was once part of a Jewish quarter there. The Jewish Synagogue was founded in 1568 and rebuilt in 1664. Unfortunately, our visit corresponded to Sabbath so we were not able to see the inside. The floor is said to have hand-painted 18th century blue and white tiles from Canton, each antique, and depicting a love affair between a mandarin’s daughter and a commoner. One wonders what the story was behind this, as I am sure there is one. The Mattancherry Palace is also near this area. It is known locally as the Dutch Palace and was erected by the Portuguese as a gift to the Cochin raja in 1537 (after the Portuguese had plundered the nearby temple), though the Dutch did add onto the building. The squat exterior is not striking, but the interior is adorned with murals, some of the finest examples of Kerala’s school of painting, illustrating stories from the Ramayana on the first floor (16th century). These are very detailed and rich in color and is never strictly naturalistic, with facial features pared down to the simplest of lines for the mouths and aquiline noses. Naturalistic painting of sacred things takes away from the mystery and majesty of the sacred, something medieval Christian art knew well and was more or less lost during the Renaissance. The paintings are the highlight of the palace, but the collection also include old maps (I love maps), coronation robes, royal palanquins, weapons, and furniture. Photography prohibited. I was interested in looking at some of the black and white photographs of the family from the early 1800's to the mid 1900's. Except for the raja, the rest of the family (brothers, sisters, mother, aunts, uncles) were dressed in very simple white doti's. The women's was pulled up over the breasts - I think as a concession to the Western photographer. Eleanor heard a guide say that wearing clothing above the waist was "outlawed" (or not done) until 1858 when the Victorian British government took over India. In this hot climate with its accent on beauty and dignity, it's not at all surprising that simplicity in dress was a norm.
Also nearby is a Jain temple, very peaceful except at noon, when a loud bell rings to announce the daily feeding of the local pigeons. Anyone around is encouraged to help dish out grain to the hungry birds. The Jain religion began at about the same time as Buddhism (same century) and has a strong code of non-violence. Leather articles remain outside the temple. It had closed at 12:30, which we had not realized, and we were not even able to take a photograph.
Next stop: a few hours in Delhi as we indulge in a plane flight to Varanasi. 3 days on a train did not seem like a good use of time for Matthew and Patrick, who will leave in 10 days AND have another 2 day train ride from Varanasi back to Chennai. So… train travel delayed … again. But coming!
Our last days in Kerala are spent here in the old trading port of Fort Cochin, the old part of the modern city of Kochi. It reminds me a little of the layout of Istanbul, where the old part of town is relatively intact and the modern city farther away - in this case, over a bridge away. Visitors can stay in lovely, restored homes or mansions and visit all the old places of interest, along windy streets small enough that only bicycles and autorickshaw and small cars are seen, all within a few blocks. It really is a walk in old Europe, just wandering the streets. Each boutique or café is an example of the old architecture and woodwork from centuries ago, different doors holding a different surprise inside. It doesn’t feel much like India, except for the saris of the local people and despite seeing a Bollywood film being recorded on the streets – and there are many tourists (and many sellers of things – again, having the sari is saving us a lot of "selling"). The city actually has two older parts, nearby Mattancherry, with its old Jewish section and synagogue as well as a Jain temple and Fort Cochin. Another unique feature of Fort Cochin are the old Chinese fishing nets still in daily use along the sea side - Eleanor and Matthew had the opportunity to help lower one of these nets!. These have many arched poles (like and octopus) operated by weights and levers and are efficient means for gathering fish, requiring at least four men to operate. It is said that the idea came with trading with Kubla Khan in the 1400’s. At 5:00 in the evening, the streets are lined with lovely fish, octopus, squid, all sizes and shapes, packed in ice and ready for sale.
Our first area of exploration was around our hotel. We stayed in a lovely room on Princess Street, the oldest street in the city. Shoes were left at the door, and the proprietor was a kind and gracious gentleman of great dignity. We are treated with such kindness and respect, partly because the people here are so kind and gracious and partly out of appreciation for our dress. We could only stay there one night and moved next door to the home of Walton and his family. Again, a wonderful family of Anglo-Indian descent and a Christian. Walton has been very helpful in getting a violin for Eleanor. He called a friend of his who teaches classical Western music who put us in touch with a good shop via our first trip on the local, city buses. Then, once at the shop, we called the music teacher who spoke to the clerks to make sure we were given good choices and prices. Truly, I am being given many, many lessons in the art of giving. Eleanor and I are invited, violin in hand, to meet the music teacher this evening. He was very excited to know that Eleanor had an extensive background. SO, our first real invitation to an Indian home!
Kochi was founded in 1341 when a flood created a natural safe port. In 1405, the royal family made it their new base, after which the city expanded rapidly, attracting Christian, Jewish, and Arab settlers. It was here, in the early 1500’s, that Vasco de Gama landed in his historic voyage from Portugal. He was buried here in 1524 for 14 years in the Church of St. Francis, the oldest church in India and built in 1503, and the title deeds, written on palm leaf, are still kept inside. The church’s original wood structure was replaced by stone in mid 1500’s. The façade, with its multi-curved sides became the model for most Christian churches in India. After 14 years, de Gama's remains were taken to Portugal, where they are to this day. The tombstone showing his place of rest is still to be seen in the church, as are many, many old tombstones, going back well into the 1500’s. The tombstones, like tombstones everywhere, reflect the history of this interesting area. The oldest tombstones have shields engraved on top with the heraldic devices of the knight the stone was commemorating. The words are chiseled in Latin, in the large, clear letters of the medieval period. Then, in 1663, the Dutch East India Company took over the area. All the churches and convents, with the exception of St. Francis, were destroyed. New tombstones were laid in the church – now in Dutch and with rounder script. The church became Anglican in 1795 and since 1949 has been attached to the Church of South India. The church is a simple and beautiful structure, with a lovely alter area and cross in stained glass above.
The other main church here in Old Fort Cochin is the Santa Cruz Cathedral. It is a Catholic Church, newly built in 1902 on the site of an old church. For me, it was an interesting surprise, as the church has retained its Portuguese flavor, including a shrine to Our Lady of Fatima, a miraculous apparition of the Blessed Virgin in Portugal around 1917. It is this area from which my family came and the church I attended as a small child was also dedicated to her. Many, many of the old people in my neighborhood in Massachusetts had either seen, or had family who saw, this apparition, so she was a very important part of our community. And here she was again! It was a little like going home, and my childhood swelled up and gushed forth. Eleanor handed me a candle, and a prayer was said for our loved ones at home, especially those in great need. The church is done in pastel colors in a Indo-Romano-Rococo style of decoration, with the whirling sun of the apparition behind the altar. The church has a convent school attached. As we entered the courtyard of the church, the children were at lunch and several girls waved and greeted us in their sing-song voices. When we left, I heard them doing group recitation of rote lessons, something quite different from the way we teach in America now. The church schools are one of the better educational establishments in India, outside of the expensive, elite schools (1000 rupee spending money each day – about $25 in US) also available. The government schools, as mentioned earlier, tend to be very poor in quality and families will do all they can to scrape together the money to send their children to school. Hearing the voices of the children added to the sense of homesickness – I’m certainly missing my little ones back home! Eleanor, too, is relishing in the wonder, but also feels the loss of the company of those dear to her. Travel gives much, and one thing is a sense of the beauty and love that is one’s home.
The other area near Fort Cochin is Mattancherry. This is where the old Jewish quarter is, already discussed a little earlier, and again, reminiscent of the Jewish quarter in Istanbul. I remember seeing some of the little screened balconies in Chennai, and wonder if that was once part of a Jewish quarter there. The Jewish Synagogue was founded in 1568 and rebuilt in 1664. Unfortunately, our visit corresponded to Sabbath so we were not able to see the inside. The floor is said to have hand-painted 18th century blue and white tiles from Canton, each antique, and depicting a love affair between a mandarin’s daughter and a commoner. One wonders what the story was behind this, as I am sure there is one. The Mattancherry Palace is also near this area. It is known locally as the Dutch Palace and was erected by the Portuguese as a gift to the Cochin raja in 1537 (after the Portuguese had plundered the nearby temple), though the Dutch did add onto the building. The squat exterior is not striking, but the interior is adorned with murals, some of the finest examples of Kerala’s school of painting, illustrating stories from the Ramayana on the first floor (16th century). These are very detailed and rich in color and is never strictly naturalistic, with facial features pared down to the simplest of lines for the mouths and aquiline noses. Naturalistic painting of sacred things takes away from the mystery and majesty of the sacred, something medieval Christian art knew well and was more or less lost during the Renaissance. The paintings are the highlight of the palace, but the collection also include old maps (I love maps), coronation robes, royal palanquins, weapons, and furniture. Photography prohibited. I was interested in looking at some of the black and white photographs of the family from the early 1800's to the mid 1900's. Except for the raja, the rest of the family (brothers, sisters, mother, aunts, uncles) were dressed in very simple white doti's. The women's was pulled up over the breasts - I think as a concession to the Western photographer. Eleanor heard a guide say that wearing clothing above the waist was "outlawed" (or not done) until 1858 when the Victorian British government took over India. In this hot climate with its accent on beauty and dignity, it's not at all surprising that simplicity in dress was a norm.
Also nearby is a Jain temple, very peaceful except at noon, when a loud bell rings to announce the daily feeding of the local pigeons. Anyone around is encouraged to help dish out grain to the hungry birds. The Jain religion began at about the same time as Buddhism (same century) and has a strong code of non-violence. Leather articles remain outside the temple. It had closed at 12:30, which we had not realized, and we were not even able to take a photograph.
Next stop: a few hours in Delhi as we indulge in a plane flight to Varanasi. 3 days on a train did not seem like a good use of time for Matthew and Patrick, who will leave in 10 days AND have another 2 day train ride from Varanasi back to Chennai. So… train travel delayed … again. But coming!
1-22-09 The Beach Incident
We arose around 7:30, which seems to be becoming part of our routine, and had a lovely, large breakfast before returning our houseboat to the dock. There were so many boats that there was no space on the dock itself. We had to pass through two other boats before we reached dry land. I wasn’t feeling too well at this point, an unfortunate combination of eating something that didn’t agree with me and stuffing my face. But we decided to go to the beach anyway. Luckily, we were allowed to leave ou luggage at the Vrunsdavanam Hotel even though we’d already checked out.
The beach was extraordinary. Dad made a few comments about how good an investment it would be to buy some real estate and build up some resort, but mom did not approve. Patrick said that someone at the hotel had said this was likely to happen in the next few years, which is too bad. The entire beach was almost deserted. I really wanted to go for a swim but had not brought a swimsuit because they are not considered decent. This forethought, however, had unfortunate results.
I decided to wear just the tunic of my Shalwar Kamees and my underwear - no bra because they take forever to dry – and that was I would still have dry pants when I was finished and could dry off a bit with my shawl. I happily ran into the water. It was sheer bliss. There was a slight undertow but nothing unmanageable. The water was warm, the waves perfect, and I was having a grand time. My queasy stomach was completely forgotten for a time. Mom and Patrick were still on dry land, so I tried to convince them to join me and Dad, but to no avail.
I ran back to the water, intent on trying to body surf. This was my undoing. It went well the first few times, but then I caught a wave wrong and got absolutely pounded into the sand. Being pounded is a very unpleasant experience and I don’t recommend it. I landed on my head - which could have been dangerous but I got lucky – and scraped up my face, knees and shoulders. It only took half a second to assess the damage as I struggled to get up out of the continuous roll of waves. I was virtually unhurt, but my clothes were ruined. The tunic had ripped all the way up the right side, from bottom hem to sleeve, and I was lying on a beach in India in all my glory with small wavelets still tugging gently on my ruined clothes.
Dad had seen my failed attempt at body surfing and my accidental flashing of the whole beach (I was VERY glad at this point for whatever inexplicable reason made this beach unpopular. You must remember – no bra) I told him I was fine, but explained to him the clothes situation, all the while holding my ruined tunic around me. He handed me a safety pin he had in his pocket and I tried to place it in the most discreet position possible so I could climb, humiliated, out of the water to my bag, where more safety pins awaited. But I was still standing in the exact wrong spot of the ocean. Just as I almost had the pin fixed, Dad yelled at me to look out. I pulled the pin out just in time to avoid getting stuck as I, once again, tumbled into the sand, forced down by the crushing weight of water. I then merely wrapped my tunic around me and trudged, defeated, back up the beach to our camp under the shady palm trees, where I fixed my clothes as well as I could.
I spent the next hour sitting and standing in the sun, making sand castles, and staring jealously at my brother, who had finally ventured into the warm waves. Still, all in all it was a fantastic two hours at the beach. I thoroughly enjoyed myself and have, more or less, given up my original mortification in favor of the obvious humor of the situation.
After the beach incident, we went back to the hotel, had some coffee, got our bags, and rode to the bus station in two rickshaws. (I got changed too, but no one else did.) We had some difficulty in finding the correct bus, but did eventually. They leave every 20 minutes for Kochi, so even though we missed at least one, there were plenty of others. The bus ride was rather unpleasant for me because my stomach began to bother me again.
The beach was extraordinary. Dad made a few comments about how good an investment it would be to buy some real estate and build up some resort, but mom did not approve. Patrick said that someone at the hotel had said this was likely to happen in the next few years, which is too bad. The entire beach was almost deserted. I really wanted to go for a swim but had not brought a swimsuit because they are not considered decent. This forethought, however, had unfortunate results.
I decided to wear just the tunic of my Shalwar Kamees and my underwear - no bra because they take forever to dry – and that was I would still have dry pants when I was finished and could dry off a bit with my shawl. I happily ran into the water. It was sheer bliss. There was a slight undertow but nothing unmanageable. The water was warm, the waves perfect, and I was having a grand time. My queasy stomach was completely forgotten for a time. Mom and Patrick were still on dry land, so I tried to convince them to join me and Dad, but to no avail.
I ran back to the water, intent on trying to body surf. This was my undoing. It went well the first few times, but then I caught a wave wrong and got absolutely pounded into the sand. Being pounded is a very unpleasant experience and I don’t recommend it. I landed on my head - which could have been dangerous but I got lucky – and scraped up my face, knees and shoulders. It only took half a second to assess the damage as I struggled to get up out of the continuous roll of waves. I was virtually unhurt, but my clothes were ruined. The tunic had ripped all the way up the right side, from bottom hem to sleeve, and I was lying on a beach in India in all my glory with small wavelets still tugging gently on my ruined clothes.
Dad had seen my failed attempt at body surfing and my accidental flashing of the whole beach (I was VERY glad at this point for whatever inexplicable reason made this beach unpopular. You must remember – no bra) I told him I was fine, but explained to him the clothes situation, all the while holding my ruined tunic around me. He handed me a safety pin he had in his pocket and I tried to place it in the most discreet position possible so I could climb, humiliated, out of the water to my bag, where more safety pins awaited. But I was still standing in the exact wrong spot of the ocean. Just as I almost had the pin fixed, Dad yelled at me to look out. I pulled the pin out just in time to avoid getting stuck as I, once again, tumbled into the sand, forced down by the crushing weight of water. I then merely wrapped my tunic around me and trudged, defeated, back up the beach to our camp under the shady palm trees, where I fixed my clothes as well as I could.
I spent the next hour sitting and standing in the sun, making sand castles, and staring jealously at my brother, who had finally ventured into the warm waves. Still, all in all it was a fantastic two hours at the beach. I thoroughly enjoyed myself and have, more or less, given up my original mortification in favor of the obvious humor of the situation.
After the beach incident, we went back to the hotel, had some coffee, got our bags, and rode to the bus station in two rickshaws. (I got changed too, but no one else did.) We had some difficulty in finding the correct bus, but did eventually. They leave every 20 minutes for Kochi, so even though we missed at least one, there were plenty of others. The bus ride was rather unpleasant for me because my stomach began to bother me again.
1-21-09
In the late morning, we set off on a houseboat. This was the real reason we came to Aleppi – to travel the backwaters of Kerala in a houseboat. It was wonderful. It is clean, comfortable, and totally relaxing. I got in some quality sunbathing on the top deck. The food was incredible and there was lots of it. I was stuffed at the end of every meal.
After we had docked in the evening, but before dinner was served, Dad and I went on a canoe tour of a village. Canoes are really the way to get around here. We saw a group of kids taking the school boat to school, rather than the school bus. The village was simple, but nice. We passed by women doing their washing in the river, children playing, men working. Once we got out of the main canal, the small canal we were on was so overhung with trees that it was quite shady. There were parts that were so covered in water plants that it became extremely difficult to row.
Sunset was extraordinary. I went a little crazy trying to capture on camera the line of palm trees and picturesque houseboats separating the bright, warm colors streaking the sky and the same colors reflected in the still waters of the canal. It was beautiful.
The boat that had docked next to us, unfortunately, left its generator running for a large part of the night. Mom and I drowned out the noise with a fan, which was necessary anyway because it can be so stuffy inside mosquito nets.
After we had docked in the evening, but before dinner was served, Dad and I went on a canoe tour of a village. Canoes are really the way to get around here. We saw a group of kids taking the school boat to school, rather than the school bus. The village was simple, but nice. We passed by women doing their washing in the river, children playing, men working. Once we got out of the main canal, the small canal we were on was so overhung with trees that it was quite shady. There were parts that were so covered in water plants that it became extremely difficult to row.
Sunset was extraordinary. I went a little crazy trying to capture on camera the line of palm trees and picturesque houseboats separating the bright, warm colors streaking the sky and the same colors reflected in the still waters of the canal. It was beautiful.
The boat that had docked next to us, unfortunately, left its generator running for a large part of the night. Mom and I drowned out the noise with a fan, which was necessary anyway because it can be so stuffy inside mosquito nets.
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