Although I had resolutely continued to knock on wood as well as plastic, metal and concrete in hopes of preserving my intenstinal unbeaten streak of over two months, Banaras, that holiest of holy Hindu cities abreast the mother Ganga, was my downfall. A scant two days in and I was sucker punched (in the gut of course) and moaning like a baby. The next five days included a dizzying (literally) array of symptoms, many ill advised attempts to get out of the imprisoning (but cool) AC hotel room to see a site or two on the hopeful sentiment that I was "feling a bit better", and much self-pity. I even got a bedside visit from an Indian doctor. Of all the cliched cliches in the annals of travel writing, surely the Delhi-belly trope takes a peculiar pride of place. This leaves me grasping a bit - I really was sick, after all, and though even my own experience of sickness itself felt somehow invaded by the wholly typical nature of the event, I still ran to the bathroom with a quite genuine and deeply felt emotion. No matter - Im sure no one is really craving details, and I am happy enough to let it stand at that, though I will note that any principled dislike of antibiotics is sorely tested and rather quickly abandoned in the face of certain challenges from the vast population of Indian microbes.  

Thanks to my intestinal visitation, impressions of Banaras were thus mostly of a reasonably safe and comforting hotel room where plain rice and toast and water and protection from the elements were all obtainable counterposed to a forbidding city where temperatures skied 45 celcius in the sun and a nasty wind whipped all manner of dust and debris and the odd spec of fecal matter into your eyes, which were themselves hopefully covered by the locally favored gumcha, a sort of all purpose cloth used for head covering and mouth protection and general stylishness (the Indian thneed?). The city is indeed a fascinating metropolis, full of cycle rickshaws and pilgrims and winding gullys and of course the famous burning ghats, which look truly hellish baking in 45 degree heat, and everywhere the sight or the sense of the Ganga. But it is also crowded and very dirty and kind of oppressive in the way that north Indian cities can be, all things which are tolerated and even occasionally appreciated on good days, but which are difficult to bare under conditions of personal duress.

We came to Varanasi for a classical music festival at a local Hanuman temple and even through sickness were not dissapointed - the city is famous for its musicians and connoseuirs and some of the performances were spectacular. As is often the case, the fabulous tabla was the main attraction. Also managed on an overly optimistic day to make it to Sarnath, the site of the Buddha's first sermon in which he advises his former comrades in asceticism that on his newly rediscovered middle way it would be all right for them to eat a bit more regularly and maybe also take a bath or two. Once they got over the shock of heterodoxy, this probably sounded pretty appealing, and well, we all know the rest of that story. Sarnath has two stupas (large domes housing relics of the Buddha), one old (7th century AD) and one really old (sometime BC) and since these were the first stupas I have seen, I was pretty excited.

I have sinced escaped the Gangetic plains and am enjoying the very cool, laid back populations and occasional stunning Himalayan views available in that favorite British hill station, Darjeeling. It is impossible not to hand it to the Brits for their mastery of the cute frame cottage, and Darjeeling is in general a really precious sort of place, somehow European in a way but in any event certainly a huge departure from the Ganfetic plains. The people here are Himalayan in origin and the tourists are mostly Bengali and the mix is far more mellow and relaxing. The temperature is cool and often cloudy/misty but when the sun comes out you kind of can't believe how beautiful the green tea filled hills are and you walk for hours up and down enjoying the historical accident that makes this place part of India. Not that I don't miss the undeniable excitement and vigour and energy found in the plains, but it is certainly nice to have a break.


   
  

The following news was reported in the Times of India and the Indian Express

 

January

 

In Maharashtra, the Sambhaji Brigade, a group of rightist religious activists loosely aligned with the locally powerful Shiv Sena movement, vandalize the Bandharakar Institute, a manuscript collection seen as a sign of Brahmin cultural hegemony. The vandals are especially angry about the Institute’s role in supporting the research of Professor Jim Laine, whose recent book includes a remark questioning the parentage of Shivaji, the great Maratha warrior who is the primary symbol of anti-Brahmin, pro-Maratha identity in Maharashtra. The same activists also assault Skrikant Bahulkar, a widely respected Sanskritist whose name appears in the acknowledgements of the book. The son of Shiv Sena leader Bal Thackeray (India’s evilest politician/ideologue?) later apologizes to Dr. Bahulkar, but anti-Brahmin demonstrations continue.   

 

February

 

In the early part of the months, the major political question is whether India and Pakistan will play a set of Cricket matches in Pakistan! Concerns for security are allayed and the matches are scheduled for March and April, some before and some after the upcoming parliamentary elections.

 

The papers also widely debate the omnipresent ‘India Shining’ ad campaign, an expensive and somewhat ominous effort by the ruling BJP party to encourage all Indians (though especially the upper and middle classes who read the papers and watch tv) to adopt a “feel good” attitude toward India as a nation state. Low budget advertisements with vague blandishments about growth grace the English language dailies, punctuated by the smiling face of A. Vajpayee, the BJP headman.

 

Meanwhile, a public and intra-party debate rages over Sonia Gandhi’s leadership of the Congress. Gandhi, who is originally from Italy, is the widow of Rajiv Gandhi, Nehru’s grandson and former prime minister. She maintains control of the party despite the fact that the BJP, whose NDA coalition includes a strong nationalist Hindutva ‘Hinduness’ wing that is easily swayed by transparent xenophobia and religious pandering, vows to make her foreign birth a campaign issue.

 

Notable Stories:

Feb. 21 – Under protection of the courts, terrified witnesses come forward to testify about atrocities committed by police forces in the 2002 Gujarat riots.

 

Feb. 25 – Under pressure from press and party members, BJP leadership rescinds its invitation of party membership to Uttar Pradesh strongman DP Yadav, who is currently under investigation and/or prosecution for numerous crimes, including murder. Hundreds of less high-profile crooks and mobster are contesting or already holding seats in state or national legislators. 

 

March

 

The Indian Cricket team’s tour of Pakistan dominates both the sports page and front page, getting about equal billing with the upcoming elections. The Indian cricket team is victorious in the series of five one-day matches, sparking exultation throughout the country. Cricket news is reported in front-page headlines that elsewhere would be reserved for news of war. Excitement and self-satisfaction grow to epic proportions when India also wins the first of three five-day test matches – it is the first test victory ever in Pakistan, a cause for much jubilation. Interestingly, cricket and politics provide the bulk of all bookmaking action in India, with bookies even offering double bets on cricket and elections. The press is generally fascinated by rumors of match fixing, which in the past has been widespread.

 

As the elections gear up, the party affiliation dance goes into full swing. Both the BJP and Congress parties court Bollywood stars, some of who will actually contest elections and some who join parties for PR and general sheen effect. Meanwhile, legislators jump furiously from one major party to the other, even in some cases jumping back to the party that they abandoned in the last election. Though Congress and BJP seek to contest as many seats as possible, they also seek to create or shore up alliances in states and seat sharing arrangements (the math of which is difficult to fathom) where they are not sufficiently strong to win a majority. The BJP holds on to its NDA alliances from the current government, while the Congress employs more of an ad-hoc, state-by-state approach: in Maharashtra they pair with the NCP, a party that split from the Congress over the foreign origin of Sonia Gandhi; in Bihar the partnership is with low-caste party of Laloo Yadav, the criminal turned politician (and I believ a relative of the aforementioned DP Yadav – big families here). Neither party manages to secure a partnership with the BSP, a powerful dalit-based party led by the notorious Mayawati, that controls many seats in the North, especially in Uttar Pradesh, the state with the most Lok Sahba seats.

 

While the electoral maneuvering can be dizzying, opinion polls generally confirm the obvious  – that the Congress lacks leadership, vision and strategy, while a BJP purged for the moment of its more extreme rightest elements is ascendant. The rise of the BJP is cause for dismay, since neither its Hindutva base nor its neo-liberal recreation bode particularly well for the vast majority of Indians. Still, it is hard to feel sorry for or bad about Congress’ decline, since the party seems bloated, unresponsive, incapable of even competent let alone progressive leadership and generally interested mostly in its own self-perpetuation.

 

To promote ‘India Shining’ and the successes of the NDA government, LK Advani, Vajpayee’s infamous second in command, embarks on his third country-wide yathra (pilgrimage/tour), which is inescapably linked to his first cross country journey that helped fuel the original Ayodhya conflicts in 1991. This time the temple and other Hindutva issues are on the back burner, but Advani remains a creepy and frightening force in Indian politics. At least the press exhibits fear about the possibility of Advani as a potential heir apparent for Vajpayee (both are in their 70’s), and note that his yathras, which are unavoidably illiberal and communalist, may do as much harm as good for the party; their obsequious adulation for Vajpayee - of the ‘next Nehru’ variety - is a bit harder to take.

 

Notable Stories:

 

March 21 - The controversy over Jim Laine’s Shivaji book continue to percolate, with Vajpayee warning foreign authors not to test Indian national pride.

 

March 31 – Miss India surrenders her crown after it becomes known that she told a potential landlord that she was married in an effort to secure an apartment.   

 

 

 

Closing out the now much backdated travelogue with some stories from Jaipur. I would skip to more recent news such as it exists: lazy days in Pune spent reading, writing, studying Hindi, swimming laps in the Deccan Gymkhana, days which despite their slow pace are punctuated by plenty of moments worth recounting. But the last stop on my Rajasthan tour included some memorable encounters, plus for the sake of completeness. . .

 

As usual, the telling begins on the road. After a bit of investigation in Pushkar, I think that I’ve found a seat on a reputable tourist bus that should have cushioned seats, maybe some fans and will generally travel the short distance to Jaipur with relative ease and swiftness. As I soon find out, this hopeful assessment is decidedly optimistic. My first pang of worry arises when I arrive at the bus stop and am shouted at by the staff that I am holding up the bus’ departure – the proposition that I am making a bus late in India is difficult to comprehend; just seems impossible to me that any bus company could be that concerned about punctuality. The ulterior motive becomes clear soon enough. The bus is full mostly of an Indian tour group, with a few scattered non-Indians: a Dutch couple, an Israeli guy, a Korean girl and myself. My seat is in the way back, where each rock in the road has the effect of pressing a small ejector button on my seat. It is very hot (no fans), the seat does not recline at all and I am thinking unhappy thoughts. After a few minutes on the bus, we stop. For the moment I am happy simply not to be bouncing up and down, but soon I am wondering why the entire tour group is disembarking and piling into horsedrawn tongas, and why the few of us remaining are now driving away and then stopping again after a kilometer or so. Eventually the horse carriages arrive with their passengers, who then mill outside of the bus for a while only get back on the carriages and take off again. My bemusement turns to more genuine concern. Shouting abuses at the driver, who is clearly getting a kick out of the whole arrangement, I am informed of the obvious, namely that this is a detour for the tour group which we non-group members will have to suffer through; which we did, for another hour and a half before all of the stragglers finally came back. The wait is fairly maddening but also hilarious, especially when Ofir the Israeli, seeing that we were stuck, immediately decided to start smoking hash in the back of the bus. When you are the butt of the joke, its definitely best to laugh along. After everyone returns, I decide to at least try to find a better seat on the bus, since I noticed one with a reclining chair was unoccupied. The bus commander fellow (different from the driver) would have none of it, so I simply ask the man who had a vacant seat next to him and he was fine with it, and then took a shine to me when I trotted out my few broken Hindi phrases “Me vidyarthi hu” (I’m a student), “Me Pune me rhata hu’ (I live in Pune), reporting each new fact about me to his wife and daughter sitting in the seats in front of us.  By the time we arrive in Jaipur, I have already shifted from traveler’s frustration to traveler’s wearied pleasure of survival and recollection, this new choice story tucked away in my collection.

I am staying with Andrea’s good friend Mia in her well-appointed flat. The heat is considerable already and when morning comes I don’t feel any pressing need to sally forth immediately to see more Rajput castles or temples, but I do get dragged out of the house in the afternoon to see a polo match at the local pitch, Rajputs being after all quite accomplished horsemen and Jaipur being not only the current capital of Rajasthan but also the former capital one of the more powerful Rajput princely states. The Polo field is really quite nice, and we sit in the stands next to the Maharaja of Banaras, who receives all kinds of obeisance from the flunkys that surround him. Its a proper match, with fairly accomplished players and even an announcer whose single tag line for successful goals is “and he makes no mistake about it”. I’m duly impressed.

 

I spend three more days in Jaipur, seeing the requisite sights – castles and havelis (mansions) and an old city painted pink by order of some monarch in the 19^th century. These and other marks of the now marginalized (though apparently still existing in some form) local dynasty are worthy viewing, as are some of the more recent marks of the colonial period, which are not surprisingly in a bit better shape. Perhaps the most fascinating sight is an enormous house built for the women of the royal family to watch processions without going out in public. This is definitely a procession sort of town; the roads are wider and better maintained than anywhere I have been yet, even in the old city, where tiny alleys with multiple twists and turns are usually the rule. Apparently the old city was actually the result of some pre-modern urban planning, the effect of which is quite apparent.

 

The wide roads and long distances of this large and sprawling metropolis are grist for another bit of hilarity. On one evening, I accompanied some friends of Mia’s to a concert of Egyptian Sufi music. As Holi had just passed, there was some leftover bhang lying around of which we all partook. I haven’t totally pieced together the mechanics of bhang, which comes in small balls that look and taste a bit like chocolate candy (or else is mixed in lhassis) but it is clearly some sort of cannabis derivative, though for some reason it is treated quite differently here both juridically and culturally than more traditional renderings of the plant like hashish i.e. it is apparently not illegal and is even considered as normal fare for otherwise respectable folk to consume on occasions like Holi when a bit of rambunctious intoxication is called for. Anyway, I hardly need to invoke my “When in Rome” philosophy to justify partaking of such a delicacy, though I do feel reassured that my hedonism can be justified in the name of cultural experience – Sufi music is after all an exercise in ecstatic and emotional release, right? In any case, the concert is really excellent, lots of dancing and singing and amazing drumming. Sufism has always been close to my heart, and by the end of the show I am thinking of converting, or at least returning for further performances. The finale involves a man dressed to look like a woman with multiple skirts which we turns into dazzling discs of color by spinning rapidly. Sometimes standing, sometimes laying down, sometimes spinning one skirt, sometimes two (one above his head and one around his waist). The crowd at the open-air theater goes wild. By the time the show lets out, the bhang has all of us spinning like one of the skirts; my two companions are especially affected and decide that walking back from the theater to the road would be an ill advised journey, so I am sent on a mission to find a rickshaw, at which point the aforementioned roads of Jaipur take center stage; because, unlike most cities in India, rickshaws are just not that plentiful in Jaipur. The distances are so great and the roads so wide and the crossroads so few that there’s just nowhere for them to sit and wait. Anyway, I intrepidly set out to find us some transport but am easily stymied and distracted, so instead start talking to a young guy who can see that I look confused. I tell him that I need a rickshaw and we agree that none seem to be in the vicinity. An apparent impasse is sensed, to which he responds quite decisively by inviting me to hop on the back of his motorbike, assuring me that we will find a rickshaw without too much trouble. I’m a bit bewildered by this unexpected turn of events, but there’s really no way to say no and in any event I’ve been dying for a ride on the ubiquitous Indian motorbike. Off we speed into the Jaipur night, and soon a rickshaw is in our sights, though unfortunately it is traveling away from us, a fact which necessitates a considerable acceleration of our speed. The chase is on. We make up considerable ground, but before catching up to the rickshaw we spot another one parked on the side of the road. My new friend drops me off, I agree to an outlandish price for my return trip with the surprised rickshaw wallah and we are off again, with me screaming “jaldi, jaldi, mera dost bimar he” (quickly, quickly, my friend is sick), another memorable tale stashed into my pockets.

 

Apologies to any devoted readers, as blog is trailing reality by a few weeks now. No internet at home coupled with current lack of handy flash drive device which was prized clever portable computing device before becoming impossible to recover for having slipped out of pocket in a rickshaw former prized device makes it a bit hard to keep on pace. The cost of course is a certain lost sense of immediacy and wonderment that comes from actually being on the road, wherein the basic object of aquiring darsan - understood in its broadest possible as literally "seeing" as much as possible - creates an intensely fertile and almost passionate awareness. Everything is remarkable, even the unremarkable, and the pen literally flies across the page simply in the act of recording sights and encounters, let alone the far more complex and engaging task of intepretation. But maybe its better for all that such exuberance is tempered by the passage of a few days in what are to me the more familiar and thus less ecstatically engaging environs of Pune. After all, as Freud might say given the opportunity, sometimes a cow paddy on the side of the street (or a cow in the middle of the road) is just a cow paddy (and not a vehicle for the existential reflections of an eye that still sees cow paddies as belonging in barns).

. . . .

From Udaipur I left warily on the evening of holi, wondering whether I would suffer a fate similar to those mauled westerners who were brave/stupid enough to go out during the day. I did not, finding instead a very deserted train station and a very strange train which did manage to take me over the course of twelve bumpy and halting and mostly sleepless hours to Ajmer. Met some cool folks from Britain on the train - basically the first western "travelers" I had a chance to talk to since being here. Definitely drove home the ways in which my experience coming here is fundamentally different from a typical tour through India: what with having such strong personal connections here as well as some genuine knowledge about India and determined interest to aquire more through study of language and culture (most people in the guest houses are definitely not reading Sumit Sarkar's  _Modern India 1885-1947). But also revealed that there is no easy classification as such and people come here for all different lengths of time, for all different purposes, with all different levels of knowledge and understanding and good or ill will. This is hardly the end of that story: the whole issue of traveling through India 

Actually back in Pune now, but am catching up in this forum on the sights and sounds of Rajasthan, where I spent the last two weeks traveling. From Mt. Abu, Udaipur is a relatively painless five hour bus ride , which I scheduled for late afternoon so as to avoid the most searing heat. This is a good strategy but ends you up at your destination place in the dark, which is somewhat disconcerting, even when equipped with Lonely Planet maps and a willingness to berate rickshaw-wallas into submission (or at least detente). But I did manage to find myself a guest house and even a beautiful restuarant overlooking Udaipur's famous Lake Pichola, where one of the Rajput kinds of old saw fit to built a palace on a small island in the lake, (this makes for a fine hotel now, though unfortunately out of my price range).

Udaipur is, like every Indian tourist destination, two cities in one - an old city full of some important sites and an entire industry based on tourism - guest houses, restaurants, shops, rickshaw wallas, "internet cafes" (this is a broadly intepreted term in India) - and then the rest of the city, which goes about its business without much acknowledgement of or provision for the visitors. Unfortunately, it is not easy to escape the well worn Lonely Planet path (well worn for a reason, mind you), especially if you don't know anyone in the place you're visiting, but it is possible. In any case, for most visitors, Udaipur is literally tiny - a few narrow byways near the lake where you can buy whatever you need (and many things you don't need) and while away your days drinking chai and watching Octupussy every night at 7 PM (apparently the Bond flick was shot in Udaipur, which is apprently reason enough for every restaurant to offer a rooftop showing). The main sight is the ramshackle city palace, which is a home improvement maven's dream - every new inhabitant of the palace seemed to add a new wing, a process that results in a veritable maze of courtyards, passageways, bedrooms, gallerys etc. One could easily while away the day her playing maharajah. The other major site in the old city is the Jagdish Mandir, a still popular and functioning temple built by one of the Rajput kings and dedicated to Vishnu. Not much to see there, really - just circumabulate, get your darsan and move on. There are other sites - castles, ruined castles, temples, runined temples, gardens where you can watch the sunset, other pleasant sorts of distractions. Plenty of shopping for minitiaure paintings, fabrics, handicrafts - the regular sort of stuff.  Its a very sweet, romantic sort of a place, charming in the way that Rajasthan is famous for, and manageable for the western tourists, who the locals are very used to seeing.  There is a reason that people really love Udaipur: it is the sort of place that a visitor can love simply and pleasantly and unproblematically - experience, appreciate and depart a few days later.

Of course, one can take all sorts of issue with that sort of unporblematic enjoyment, but one must also be realistic about what it means to be a tourist and what options are open to you. I met some great local folks in Udaipur hanging around my hotel, and with a little Hindi (or even without it) you can get past the basic I buy/you sell relationship and have meaningful conversations and learn things about people and culture and all the rest (and in many cases the very difference and ephemerality that such relationships are based on allow for the deepest sort of revelations and confidences). I also walked around the main roads and bazars which are outside of the old city, and got a chance to see the city as it functions for the majority of the people who live there, though how much I really saw and understood or even what such sights and understandings mean is certainly up for debate. But in the end, and even accounting or all sorts of variation and discrepancy, I think that whenever one drops in on a place for a few days, and all the more where the place is very different and is built to construct the visitors experience in a certain way, then there is an inescapbale lightness to the experience, and this lightness must simply be ackowledged and accepted as part of the terms of the agreement. One needn't feel bad about this sort of thing, but then one should also not ignore it or pretend that it isn't a defining charatceristic/limitation.

From Ahmedabad to Mt. Abu, a hill station famous for its Jain temples. Bus ride = horrible. Hot and bumpy and, well , horrible. As the only westerner, I receive constant stares, well meaning but very disconcerting. Feel vaguely ill and subsist on water and ritz like crackers. Am wondering, as one does now and then while doing anything here, what the hell I am doing here. Exit the bus at Mt. Abu in searing heat (hill station is supposed to be cooler?) and walk a long kilometer ( a small defeat, to suddenly find oneself blithely spouting off in metric terms) to the Sri Ganesh hotel. Hot shower, a sort of banal assumption in the states = new lease on life in India. Oh, thank you Krsna/Siva/Brahma/Adonai/Allah for your prasad, this flowing water, this human ingenuity of electricity, this glorious cleanliness. I am refreshed, revived, reborn, and then gratefully asleep. Wandering through Mt. Abu that night, a place where the odd western backpacker is outnumbered twenty to one by Gujaratis and Rajasthanis beating the heat and walking hand and hand around a rather disgusting looking lake; plenty of beautiful but overpriced Rajasthani fabric in the shops to catch the eye, but I am mostly looking for a  restaurant that looks clean enough to be stomach safe. Sticking to overcooked food (Pau Bhaji - mmm) and avoiding all manner of rawness - juice, lassi, salad - gives a modicum of reassurance, as does my trusty bottle of grapefuit seed extract, which supposedly kills bad things in the food with a single drop (right). Kind of still wondering what Im doing there, but at least its not as hot out.

The next day the hotel owner's son takes us on a beautiful walk to a viewpoint that spreads the Rajasthani desert out before us endlessly, a sea of dusty fields with the occasional irrigated plot, a dried up river bed cutting the scene in two with a ribbon that recalls years of drought. Same son drives us to the Jain temples in the afternoon. Elaborate carvings everywhere and more murtis (icons) than you could possibly venerate. An excited temple-walla spends half an hour explaining to me in broken english (or in Hindi I can barely follow) that of the ten elephants we are looking at, only one has not required a replacement trunk and ears. I am duly impressed. More fascinating are the carvings he points out of Krsna, Parvati, Laxmi and other Hindu stalwarts that grace this Jain temple. Clearly religious exclusivism of the type we have come to take for granted in the hyper-sectarian western traditions did not have as much purchase in pre-modern India. After all, the more murtis = the more darsan = more blessings, so why be picky about God's obviously innumerable forms. I like Jain temples: they are effusive and exuberant in a Hindu sort of way yet crucially more refined, more delicate, more aesthetically coherent. The white marble could not be more reassuringly peaceful and enveloping - like the earth's purest expression of the Jain's strick adherence to principles of ahimsa (non-violence). Once again, the odd western tourist is lost amongst swarms of Indians, some Jain I guess but mostly not, taken through the temples at a brisk pace by Hindi speaking guides who do not even make a show of enthusiasm as they rattle off there endlessly repeated lines about the age of the temples, which aristocrat commissioned them, which Jain Thirtaka (enlightened being) is venerated within. Its classically brusque and busy Indian tourism, brings a smile ot my face though I can't understand the rapidly delivered Hindi riffs. That evening I walk to the mobbed sunset point and loop around through the woods back to the lake, catching a glimpse and then a wonderful photo of a tiny white shrine backlit by the setting sun. At which point questions about what the hell Im doing here, always lurking somewhere, dissolve into a visual summation of every reason why being here is such a phenomenal blessing, and palms together I am thanking the sky, the shrine, the unknown god inside of it, the unknown gods inside myself, the moment that like every moment is a universe unto itself, Blake's grain of sand caught blowing off the Rajasthani plains and into a sky of blues and pinks and quickly coming greys that, weightlessly, I can carry with me anywhere.

One more morning in Mt. Abu - another hike with Lalit, the wierdly brooding hotel owner's son. He insists I go, that it is a special place. I am sold. We arrive hours later at a lake that is at least fairly clean and unpolluted. I take a dip and try to stay out of the sun but by the time we return my sunburn is embarrasingly red. Being a stray random white guy is bad enough, being a stray random sunburned white guy with a goofy looking red face. . . Run quickly to the main meditation hall of the hilarious Brahma Kumaris sect (new age meditation cult with an appropriately eclectic mix of Indian type philosophies and the de rigeur guru who is not really a guru but whose picture is in a really huge frame at the center of the meditation hall).The meditation hall is really big and oppressively white, as are all the buildings and the clothes of all the devotees running about with their Brahma Kumaris smiles. This kind of stuff is not to be missed. Back in time for a quick lunch and another bus ride to Udaipur.     
       

Life in Pune is very peaceful and civilized, something Im realizing all the more now that Im on the road. No more lesiurely mornings with fresh south Indian coffee and the english dailies, source of constant amusement and concern (the Indian political scene is at turns hilarious and disturbing, but that's an issue for a separate post). Nowhere to lay out my yoga mat. No delicious idlies at Vaishalis ( a local restaurant serving up the finest in Maharshtrian snack food). No computer to compose carefully worded and resoundlingly insightful blog entries ;-). And most importantly, no company; my conversations these days are mostly along the lines of "no, I don't want a rickshaw" or "ik bottle pani chahie" or "So, what brings you to India". Of course, this little two week journey is full of its own pleasures, so Im hardly complaining, but its definitely nice to know I have somewhere and somebody to come home to.

Considering the dodginess of this internet connection, Ill limit myself to recounting my wonderful visit to Ahemdabad, where I stayed with the cousins of my good friend Abhi. As these journeys must, mine started at the Pune train station, where I spent the requisite two hours shuttling from window to window trying to book a ticket. Note to any future visitors to Pune - there is inded a window 29, even if you can't find it at first. So keep looking, and don't be afraid to use the old "meri madad kijie" line ("please help me") whenever in doubt. In fact, most people really are quite helpful, and thankfully a lot of them speak english of some sort. Window 29, once found, was indeed my salvation, though I still don't understand the whole waitlist system (I was #36 but my ticket was confirmed via an emergency quota - the emergenbcy being, um, that I really wanted to go to ahemdabad?). Ticket purchased, bags packed, berth found on the Ahimsa express (so named because it heads to the city where Gandhi preached his philosophy of non-violence). I was traveling on the second anniversary of the most recent Gujarat riots, which didn't exactly fill me with comfort, though not being or appearing to be Muslim made me feel a bit better. In fact, the ride was thouroughly uneventful - I chatted with some blokes from Ahemdabad, one of whom kind of bugged me out with his VHP inspired  "Muslims are inherently violent" blather. I tried to offer a more compelx perspective, but you can only get so far when its subtlety vs. ultra-rightist over simplifications. Was thankful when lights out meant I could settle down on my little sleeping berth until the morning. We arrived two hours late and Abhi's cousin Nimish met me the train station. Its really nice to be met at train stations in India. Much nicer than fending off the rickshaw wallas anyway.

Nimishbhai (like Nimish-uncle) was the consummate host. He put me up in a hotel/club thing near his house and basically took care of me for the rest of the time. Vinod, his driver, was pretty much at my disposal and I didn't even have to go to the trouble of planning my day, since he just told me where to go. Not a bad way to start the trip, since being on your own in India can be a bit daunting. My first day started with lunch at his house - delicious home cooked Gujarati food. Then Nimish accompanied me to see Gandhi's ashram, which was a totally powerful experience. Something about just reading the well know facts of this mans life in the totally simple and rustic place where he began his political career and launched the famous salt march. Not much to see at the ashram but the effect is all the more powerful for the rusticness of the locale. Gandhi was, after all, a fairly simple man in many ways and this was a big part of his appeal. Suffice it to say that if each of us held to our highest ideals even a fraction of the time that Gandhi managed to. .  I know the story is a bit more complicated than all that (political stories always are) but for the moment it was plenty to just feel and believe in one man's example, taken without any skepticism. We also visited the Hanuman temple (Nimish goes every Saturday for darsan and prasad) and then had a traditional Gujarati thali (all you can eat veg style) at a sort of Sturbridge village Gujarat style village recreation place. A full day. Subsequent days had me driving to the Sri Narayan temple to see a kind of Hindu bakhti meets Disneyworld display that is kind of beyond description, though I should note that the puppet/robots that sang traditional bhajans did kind of remind me of Chuck-e-Cheese. Also saw a beautiful Jain temple, a cool step well and sundy other Ahmedabad sights,a s well as more tasty meals prepared by Nimishbhai's lovely wife Nipti (he also lives with his mother and grandmother). Ahmedabad is a big, thriving city which Nimish knows well - he was raised there and is a thriving businessman in the trucking industry. He showed me the drastic changes from the old city, with its narrow alleys to houses piled high (we even toured the house where Abhi's father grew up), to the bustling shopping districts, to the suburban sprawl replete with multiplexes and shopping malls. Kind of a trip, especially if you recall that even in suburbia (or whatever it is) there are still cows wandering the streets. I can't really do justice to any of the crazy confluences and contradictions, but Nimishbhai certainly gave me the grand tour, so if it can't come out in words that feel inadequate, the impressions are at least stuck somewhere in my head. My host even got me a bus ticket to Mt. Abu, my next destination, a hill station famous for its Jain temples, which I will attempt to describe ta some point in the very near future.        

     

After only a day in Pune we head to the bus station where we immediately find a bus headed to Aurgangabad, 200 km to the north, (immediately as in: we arrive, ask when the next bus is leaving, are pointed in the direction of a bus that leaves five minutes later). The bus ride takes about five hours, and by Andrea’s account it is fairly painless thanks to the relatively decent roads in Maharashtra, though again painless means something very particular here. While the road is indeed in fairly good shape, the variety of vehicles (to use the term broadly) that utilize it turn the ride into a painful exercise in aggressive driving. On the side of the road are people walking or cycling; to their left are the “two-wheelers” i.e scooters and motorbikes, as well as diesel rickshaws; closer to the center are the ubiquitous trucks and busses, as well as cars, which are either big Landrover looking jeeps or tiny Indian style hatchbacks. This incredible diversity requires an assortment of creative maneuvers and wild passes . The bus is either speeding up to pass a scooter, slowing down to let a car pass, squeezing past a cyclist or perhaps stopped altogether for some water buffalo that are crossing the road. A constant speed is rarely maintained for more than 20 seconds, and the passengers stomachs suffer accordingly. Horns are used constantly to announce to all concerned that your vehicle is making a pass or simply in the area - the backs of trucks actually say "horn please" (they also have all sorts prayers, messages and public service announcements written on them as well). Thankfully our bus' horn is a mellow foghorn bass blast, far less excrutiating than the shrill shrieks of some of the other vehicles that pass. Reading is of course impossible as the bus lurches along, and sleeping is none too easy either. Luckily there is plenty to look at on the road – shrines, shops, shacks, people everywhere and fabulously colorful signs in Hindi and Marathi, which give me ample opportunity to practice reading nagri script. Aurangabad is needless to say a welcome site (not the world's most beautiful city, but at leats the bus has stopped moving) although not much time to enjoy the pause as we immediately (see above for definition of this word) find another bus leaving for Ellora where we will meet a group from TMV (our host institution) that is touring the famous Ellora and Ajunta caves.

We arrive late at Hotel Kailash, a few meters away from the Ellora caves and head for bed. Up before the sun (again) we hop into a car with the university group (a professor, two Sanskrit phD students, two exchange students from Japan and a driver) to drive the 70 km to Ajunta caves. Walking down to the caves from a viewpoint a few km away, the sight before us is quite stunning – a massive semicircular cliff 200 meters high with 30 or so caves carved into its side and a small river valley below. One can only imagine what it was like for pilgrims or travelers to come upon this sight after many days walk or ride, when the caves were still a vibrant center of Buddhist practice and life more than 1500 years ago. To see these caves crawling with monks instead of tourists would have been quite a sight indeed, especially after an arduous overland journey. After waiting for an hour for the “booking-walla” (this is actually a word in Hindi/Marathi; walla being the all purpose Hindi term that might be translated in English as “guy” or “man”, though in English we tend to use more specialized terms – booking “agent”, ticket “taker”, baggage “handler”), we are admitted into the caves. Its 10 am and Im already dehydrated and have a headache. You simply cannot drink enough water here (and its still the cool season). The caves are truly remarkable. Built over a 500-year period, they are basically divided into vihars (monasteries) and shrines, though many do double duty. The Ajunta caves fame comes form the wall paintings (similar to frescoes), many of which are still quite well preserved (in a relative sense). The larger caves are considered temples and visitors must take their shoes off. The caves are lit by low intensity lights which partially illuminated the paintings of Buddhas, bodhisattvas and the like. Its not easy to intepret or understand exactly what’s going on in the paintings or in the caves but we are lucky enough toward the end of the visit to run into Walter Spink, an art historian type who has made Ajunta his life work, and he explains something about his version of the cave’s history. As is often the case in Buddhist history (and maybe religious history in general?), the story is largely about the relationship between priests/monks and their aristocratic sponsors – all but as few caves are the product of sponsorship from emperors and their feudal lords, and when the dynasty fails and the patronage disappears, the caves soon fall into disuse.

By evening we are back at the Ellora caves, which are more famous for their carvings and sculpture. Unlike the Ajunta caves, which are solely Buddhist, these caves are divided between Buddhists, Hindus and Jains. All of the Ellora caves are free to enter except the massive Kailash temple, the world’s largest monolithic structure (i.e. structure made from a single piece of material, in this case stone). We walk around the Buddhist caves in the cool evening, saving Kailash for the next morning. We return before the sun again, walking around and above the temple, which is carved directly into the side of a cliff, before descending to the entryway. The temple, dedicated to Siva, is truly an unbelievable sight. The king who ordered its construction certainly knew what it means to build for posterity. Its sort of like a Hindu Parthenon carved into the side of a cliff, though without the monopolistic fame of the latter monument; Indian religious history is simply too venerable and geogrpahically diverse to have any one building hold that kind of singular fame, but if you're looking for an analogue in scope and majesty, the Parthenon is a good place to start. You could easily walk around the place for hours, especially if you're with someone who can decode the majestic statues, which honor all sorts of Gods in additiont to the great Destroyer. The carvings and statues of all manner of beast and deity are in great shape and the central temple inside with the requisite lingam (phallic icon of Shiv) is a powerful site. We leave reluctantly as the group is assembling for the bumpy ride back to Pune.

The Bombay airport is sticky and faded and dilapidated but full of a very functional sort of activity – passengers disembarking, lines forming, customs officials examining visas, workers unloading bags, tourist officials dispensing advice. The passengers on my plane and in the customs line are a diverse lot, most of Indian descent, but many Europeans and Americans as well. Families with small children, businessmen, a few backpackers and lone travelers like myself. Far less than half line up to be processed as Indian nationals – most people no matter their skin color are visiting a country that they do not call home, at least in the official sense of the word. The customs process is swift and efficient; the baggage claim is neither. Baggage-wallas roam everywhere, removing certain bags from the conveyor belt for no apparent reason and stacking them on the ground. People push and shove with their baggage carts, banging into each other and a few women in wheel chairs who seem unfazed by the commotion and jostling. After a while a bell sounds and the conveyor belt stops. I am slightly buoyed by the fact that the Hindi and Marathi speakers don’t seem to have much more of an idea of what is going on then I do, less so by the fact that the baggage-wallas also seem pretty bewildered. Eventually (i.e. after about 20 minutes) another conveyor belt starts up and the crowd moves enmasse to claim their bags on a new belt. In the moving throng I am grabbed/hugged by someone behind me. For a moment I think it might be my girlfriend, Andrea, though I know she isn’t allowed into the baggage claim area; turns out to be just an old man pulling me back so as to rush past me to the beckoning conveyor belt. Eventually I find my bags and exit, walking past the “he-lo, he-lo” of the hotel-wallas. Hundreds of people are waiting outside for their loved ones; I am lucky enough to have one of them looking for me, as the scene is a bit intimidating. A brief stop at the bathroom (I choose the Indian style “WC”, which involves a hole in the ground a bucket of water), a quick negotiation with the rickshaw driver and we are on our way in the Bombay night to the much needed comfort of an air conditioned room and a bed.

Our hotel, the Strand, sits in the Colaba region at the south of Bombay, overlooking a harbor full of fishing and tourist boats. A block away is the Taj Mahal, Bombay’s finest hotel in full colonial regalia. Another block takes you to the famous if now maligned Gateway to India, a somewhat blocky colonial arch built to welcome the first British monarch to set foot on Indian soil sometime in the early twentieth century. Jet lagged and awake before the sun, we take a stroll to the arch where mostly Indian tourists are gaping at the sites of the big city. Andrea notices a young woman looking excitedly into field goggles, a device she seems to have never seen before. Hawkers offer food, photographs (no polaroids – do they mail them to you later?), and chai, the last of which we sample though the price is a bit dear by Indian standards - 5 rupees (about 10 cents) per cup. Everywhere the colors are far more vivid than any guide or picture book can capture, set in motion as they are through women’s saris, tourist boats and everywhere signs in Hindi, Marathi and English. The brief stroll is exhausting and the rising sun brings added heat with every moment. Breakfast at a cafe that caters to foreigners followed by coffee (Nescafe with loads of sugar and buffalo milk) at the strange Parsi joint across the street that definitely does not cater to foreigners and I need a nap. The afternoon includes some shopping, lunch at a truly excellent Mediterranean restaurant and a stroll through the back alleys of the Colaba, populated by the Koli fishing populations who have lived in Bombay since long before it became a major metropolis (before the Portugese came Bombay wasn't much to look at). We are curiosities as we walk through the alleys and all of the clichés about India’s shocking poverty are animated before me. The degree of difference for all involved is so massive on so many levels that one cannot really engage fully and so the images and interactions are processed in clichés on both sides – rich and poor, American and Indian etc. They stare or sell or beg or parrot “he-lo”, “what country”; we ignore or stare back or refuse. Occasionally Andrea launches into Hindi, telling the kids to speak more politely or the beggars that we won't give them anything, and this inspires another set of clichéd responses and interactions, though certainly of a more substantial nature ("Hindi atti he" they say surpised - literally "Hindi comes to you?"). The entire scene repeated endlessly seems at turns deeply significant and deserving of careful interpretation (of the nature of tourism, of the possibilities for intercultural interaction, of language as the essential form of culture, of world politics and economics and development and on and on) and sadly ephemeral, a casual set of repetitions that lightly blur one into the next. One second I am compelled to understand, to appreciate, to grasp the significance and at the next I am simply acting and reacting and looking for a quiet place to escape.

The next morning comes far too early. It has been a while since I’ve been properly jet lagged, and though its hardly the worst sort of thing in the world to undergo, iysunpleasant nonetheless, and a second’s morning waking before the sun loses some of its charm. The cool Bombay morning feels as alive and full of potential as before, but I am considerably less enthusiastic. We decide to head back to Pune instead of gong through the motions of a day of sightseeing without the motivation or excitement (or even minimal necessary awareness). This decision requires a trip to the train station to change our tickets. The Bombay train station is a phenomenal sensory experience, quite difficult to capture in words. The first floor entrance presents us with a host of windows. We ask around at a few of them and are told that the real action is upstairs, which turns out to be true, but not in a very good way – hundreds of people sitting around waiting for their number to be called. I go back downstairs to pull a number (no, that doesn’t make sense, but it is how the system works) and see that there are about 500 people in front of us. Not too promsing, so we head towards the curiously deserted supervisor’s window. This seems a lost cause to me but Andrea is more optimistic and considerably more skilled in negotiating the situation. Long bursts of Hindi and head wobbling (I am working on my head wobble in front of the mirror, though its a bit jerky at the moment) and maybe a batted eyelash and she has convinced the supervisor to make all the necessary changes. This sends us to another window whicih looks bad for a moment as the woman is departing for lunch, but more head wobbles and “please, madams” and we are successful again. The entire errand takes only 45 minutes, a minor miracle. We have enough time for some shopping at the Khadi Bhavan, bastion of Gandhian politics, homestyle cloths and weirdly soviet style commerce. This is another place that’s hard to capture – the placid salespeople, the racks of homespun garments downstairs and fabulous handicrafts upstairs, the three step purchasing system – choose in one place, pay in another, pick up the merchandise in a third - the unforeseen Salvation Army style 25% discount in celebration of the 20 days after Indepdendence Day holiday. Its peaceful and fairly empty, a far cry from the bustle of the improvised shops and booths full of crappy clothes and trinkets just a few steps outside. We both buy some kurtas and I buy a bronze statue of Ganesh, the elephant-headed son of Siva and Parvati whose many duties include protection and benediction at the start of journeys; seems like a good investment. There’s even some time left for a stop at McDonald’s India before we head for the train.

Our rearrival at the station is amplified chaos as we are now carrying luggage, giving cause for an assault of baggage-wallas looking to help us to our train. We decline repeatedly and vociferously and tote our things past all manner of passenger and cargo and past twenty odd cars on our train until we find our own at which point Im wishing we had taken a porter. Finally we arrive at our 3 tier AC sleeper, where lo and behold our names our posted on the printout next to the door – “Ms. Pinky” and “Mr. Isaac”. Im slightly amazed that all of our negotiations actually led to our names appearing on this piece of paper but then I remember to make the effort in separating form and substance. The Indian rail system is after all a fairly solid and widely used mode of transport, even if a bit dilapidated by our standards. What’s more, while Amtrak officials might look like they are part of a reputable organization, we all know how capable they are at getting you where you’re headed. Pulling away from the station at the appointed hour, the train is a totally comfortable and reassuring experience. Hawkers walk the aisles offering all manner of snacks and chai, but without any particular intrusion or expectation. The businessman next to us takes his shoes off and hops up to the upper tier to catch some rest. Across the aisle a man plays lovingly with a girl he has just met, her parents nowhere to be seen. The landscape outside is expansive, broad and wide and dry like the Ameriican West but with a totally different sort of vegetation and everywhere unexpected evidence of human habitation, especially around the villages and their accompanying stations which are full of activity. Four hours later and we are hopping off at Pune station. Passing a loud and colorful puja full of singing and clapping and fireworks at a shrine placed in the middle of the station (to which God? But then there are shrines everywhere and you never really know who they are for) we hail a rickshaw and are on our way home.