It takes about 24 hours to fly from the US to India, if you stop somewhere in Europe, including layovers and all. The 24 hour train trip from Mumbai to Chennai was much easier and much more comfortable than any of those journeys. I usually take the 2-tier or 3-tier air conditioned cars on long train trips here, but this time none of those seats was available, so I took the sleeper class, which is the class most Indian families take. Each little section has 6 seats - 3 long benches on each side, top, middle and bottom, that are long enough to lie on. During the day, though, they fold the middle one down so that it makes a back to the bottom one and forms a little bench for sitting. But I prefer the top berth, so I can lie down and nap whenever I want. The sleeper class turned out to be very fun, much more friendly and social than the AC cars, and I was the only non-Indian in sight.
I shared my car with a family of 5. When they came onto the car, I said hello, and saw that one of the young women had her hands beautifully and intricately decorated with henna, so I asked her if she had just gotten married. She told me she was heading down south to get engaged. She was traveling with her Father, Mother, Auntie and best friend. And now, me.
The groom's family does the engagement party, which is as big and lavish as the wedding, and that's where they were heading. The bride's family does the wedding, which is going to be up in Mumbai, where they are from, and then the happy couple is planning on moving to Simi Valley near Los Angeles.
The train rides are a real joy, everyone is very open and friendly, children play with other passengers, families bring extravagant picnics, and just in case there's not enough food for anyone, every few minutes a porter comes by selling cold drinks, or chips and cookies, or fried snacks, or full meals of biryani (rice mixed with chicken or vegetables) or Indian thalis (meals with white rice, curries, and other goodies). And of course, even more often than that, someone comes by selling chai and coffee. They carry urns filled with hot spiced and sugared milk, fill up a little paper cup, and then add a tea bag or instant coffee. Each cup sells for 5 rupee, or about 11 cents.
The family in my car was great. We chatted a lot, bought each other chai often, and they shared with me some of the food they brought along. I even tried some of my Hindi and a couple of Marathi words on them, and they totally lit up at that. I guess some westerners learn some Hindi, but nobody learns any Marathi. My local shopkeeper Prakash has taught me a few Marathi words, showing me off when other people come to his shop, and beaming like the proud teacher he is. So I tried those words on my new friends on the train, and they loved it. The train left at 8:30 at night, so after dinner and tea and getting to know each other, we all settled in for the night. I had one last cup of garam dudh (hot sweet milk), without tea or coffee this time, and went to sleep.
In the morning, when I took off my eye mask and iPod, the train was a bustle of activity. I watched from my perch on the top berth as people went to the sink to wash up, put away their sheets, returned the middle berths to the bench position, and ate breakfast. I waited until a magical convergence of 2 porters stopped in front of me, one selling coffee and the other selling idly, a steamed rice cake which makes for a lovely light and tasty breakfast. I ate that great train meal for less than a dollar, and then climbed down to join my party.
For the next couple of hours, we sang. The bride, her friend, her mother and auntie were all singing songs from Bollywood movies, occasionally moving their hands or heads in imitation of the dance steps done to the songs. I sat with them, smiling, clapping along, and joining in on choruses when I could figure it out. Then they asked me to sing! (Little did they know what they were getting themselves into.) First, I sang the 2 Hindi songs I know, from an old movie I saw in 1995. I bought the DVD before I came back from that trip, so I learned the songs. They were very impressed I knew even those songs, and joined with me enthusiastically. Then they wanted an English song. Fly me to the Moon is what came out, and when I finished, they applauded, and we went back to Hindi songs, moving on from happy love songs to sad love songs and then back to happy ones.
The day went by quickly, with all of us taking naps during the couple hours when it started to get a little warm in our car, and the next thing I knew, the sun had set, and shortly thereafter we arrived at Chennai-Egmore station; the end of the line.
We exchanged email addresses, so that Heather and I could see Jayshree and her husband-to-be when they move to LA in December, and said our goodbyes. I congratulated the father on his daughter's engagement, and on a lovely family.
Getting off the train, I was in the middle of India's 4th largest city, but it had a peaceful, slow feeling to it. Around the station were many travel shops and hotels, and I wanted to get to Pondicherry as soon as I could, which is a town about 4 hours away by bus, because the next day was Bastille Day, and it's supposed to be a holiday in Pondy. Pondy is a former French enclave, the way that Goa is a former Portuguese enclave, 2 small remaining parts of India that the British left to other European powers when they consolidated their colonial power over the country. Apparently, somehow Pondy remained an independent French colony until 1956, long after Indian independence. But Pondy is also close to the Sri Aurobindo ashram, and most of the hotels close by 10:30, so I had to wait until the morning.
I had looked up bus companies online before I left, and found one tha thad an early morning bus, so I searched for that company. I went to another random travel agency that only had busses at night, and tried to convince me to take one, but I told them the name of the bus company I wanted, and they sent me in the right direction, which I thought was mighty friendly of them. Even the rickshaw drivers who jump all over newly-arrived passengers left me alone once I told them I didn't need any help. In some other places in India, they've been much more persistent. I easily found the right bus company and booked a ticket for the bus leaving 6:00am the next day. I even found a rickshaw driver who agreed to meet me at 5:00 am to take me to the bus stop, which is about 45 minutes outside of town. Then I went to a restaurant on the block and got my first official south India dosa, which was indescribably delicious.
The next step was to find a room. I was only going to be there for a few hours, but I still needed a room. I found a tiny, grungy room at a good price at a bachelor's hotel. Only men allowed. Those 4 hours were more miserable than the 24 on the train. I was attacked by mosquitos, and when I hid in my sleep sack, it became unbearably hot. So from midnight until 4:30 am, i swatted mosquitoes, and killed more than a few, who died leaving bright red spots on the walls and sheets, which I knew was my blood, freshly sucked from me. I hardly slept at all, and was relieved when my alarm went off and I could get up, shower, find my rickshaw driver, and head to the bus stop.
The bus ride was easy, I slept hard and they had to wake me when we arrived in Pondi. I went to a guest house that I chose from my guidebook, checked in, opened the doors to the balcony overlooking the ocean, and crashed on the clean and comfortable bed.
14 July 2010
11 July 2010
Once more, with feeling.
It's almost time to come back. But before I do, I'll will take one last Indian road trip. Today I bought a ticket to head down south, 26 hours on the fast train to Chennai. Tamil Nadu is the one state I've always wanted to see, and haven't seen yet (except for a one-night layover in 2004, where I dipped my toes into the Bay of Bengal, but didn't do much else). It's a completely different world than the north. The north of India is a melting pot, due to centuries of invasion by everyone from Alexander the Great to the British. But the south has remained largely untouched (despite British rule), and is still strong in traditional Hinduism, with many ancient temples still standing and actively used. It'll be back to English for me there, for all the Hindi and the few words of Marathi I've learned will be useless. They speak Tamil, and would rather hear English than Hindi.
It wasn't easy getting a ticket. The trains were sold out, but they reserve a certain number of seats for every train that are released first thing in the morning, 2 days before the train leaves, known as the tatkal quota. I went to a travel agent I know, and hired him to get me a tatkal seat. Even still, he was unable to get a berth in the air-conditioned cars, so I ended up in sleeper class. I believe I still get a full padded bench to myself, but there is no AC. It's been cooler since the monsoon has started though, and I don't mind roughing it for this last trip, so we'll see what it's like. I can always try to upgrade on the train itself; that is usually possible, and you pay the porter the difference. It was much cheaper this way anyway; less than US$10 for a 26 hour, 1279 km (795 mile) journey. The AC cars are 3 times as much.
I get to Chennai (formerly Madras), the big city down there, on Tuesday at 10pm or so, too late to head out that night. I'll spend the night at a retiring room in the train station itself, or more probably at one of the guest houses nearby. Early the next morning, I want to leave for Pondicherry, a town I've always wanted to see. It was a French enclave, the one place left to them by the British, and still has a French feel to it apparently. Wednesday is, appropriately enough, Bastille Day, which is celebrated there with parades and other festivities. I'll arrive as early as I can (it's a 4 hour bus trip from Chennai), and spend 5 or so days there, depending on how I like it.
From there I plan to visit Mamalapuram, a friendly traveler's enclave on the beach, with seafood restaurants and palm trees and temples. I'll relax there for another 5 days or so, doing nothing but reading and eating and walking. (I look forward to visiting Krishna's Butter Ball, a large, precariously balanced stone formation. Oh how Krishna loves his butter.)
The other place I plan to see on this little trip is the holy town of Tirupathi, and the nearby temple at Tirumala. It's a famous Hindu pilgrimage site, apparently attracting more religious visitors than Mecca, Jerusalem or Rome, though it gets very few Western tourists. I want to end my year in India with a visit there, to express my love and gratitude for the time I've had here, ending it with a spiritual focus, as a resident, an Indian by nature if not by birth, and not as a tourist, not as an outsider. I will walk with the thousands of pilgrims to spend a few moments with the deity, and give great thanks for this amazing year, before I leave this country, and head back to my real family.
I'll have a few days in Mumbai when I return, and I will, as I have been doing in these weeks since I returned from Hampi, enjoy my beloved city. I've been taking long ambles around town, talking to the people, visiting my favorite restaurants, shopping for mementos (and pretty things for Heather), and enjoying the ambiance. Tonight I walked home from Waterfield Road and Linking Road, after drinking lemon tea at a new bakery there.
The other night, I walked home from Juhu beach. Actually, the linked map was not my route. I walked directly from Point A to Point B, through no man's land. I walked as far on the beach as I could, a beautiful seaside walk along the Arabian sea with joggers and young couples and families, enjoying the respite from the ever-present monsoon rains, until the sea encroached and blocked my path. I turned East, inland, and found myself in the middle of the poorest slum I have seen here. On the google map, it's just empty, and it's true that there were no roads, no cars, no rickshaws. There was only semi-permanent, hastily built homes, with blue tarps as walls and roofs, and thin beams of recovered wood in the corners for structure. The alleys between them were so narrow that you had to turn sideways to pass anyone, with only garbage and mud underfoot. There was no electricity, just the light of fires and wood stoves, and no running water. I was lost. I was looking for a rickshaw but was in the middle of this neighborhood, with nary a vehicle to be found.
In any other country in the world, I might have been scared to be in such a neighborhood. But not in Aamchi Mumbai, my Mumbai, my India. I felt as safe and at home as I do anywhere here. I asked a local man to point me toward a rickshaw, and he told me to follow him for a while. (Though the only word spoken between us was "rickshaw".) He led me deeper into the neighborhood (I am reluctant to call it a slum, though anyone would), and then pointed for me to continue, mysteriously saying "boat". I looked in the direction he was pointing, and it was darker, and muddier, and more desolate. Could that be the right way? But I went with my heart and trusted him, and continued, my feet sinking into the mud as I approached the banks of a small inlet of water. It was very dark by then, and before I realized it, I came to the edge of the water, and a small wooden raft. Across the water, i could see lights and vehicles and the rest of the city. I had to cross the water to get to my rickshaw. There was a boy on the small raft. It was about 10 feet square, and he was about 10 years old. I climbed aboard, and he pushed his big bamboo pole into the bottom of the waterbed, and ferried us across. I thanked him with 2 rupee, and carefully stepped off. I walked in the direction I knew had to be right, and after a couple dark blocks, came to a busy street, filled with rickshaws and vendors selling things on the streets, and small shops. And i recognized it! It was the road I always drive down on my way to Juhu. I knew where I was! It was close enough to my neighborhood, so I walked along the road. I stopped at one vendor selling sheets, I had bought some from him a month or so ago, and he recognized me, beamed a smile at me when he saw me, and started to show me more sheets. I wasn't buying that night, but I smiled back. I finished the walk back, got home, washed my feet, and settled into my apartment. What a night, what a walk through the city, parts I had never seen, until coming to parts I recognized. I do so love it here. But I'm also ready to come back.
It wasn't easy getting a ticket. The trains were sold out, but they reserve a certain number of seats for every train that are released first thing in the morning, 2 days before the train leaves, known as the tatkal quota. I went to a travel agent I know, and hired him to get me a tatkal seat. Even still, he was unable to get a berth in the air-conditioned cars, so I ended up in sleeper class. I believe I still get a full padded bench to myself, but there is no AC. It's been cooler since the monsoon has started though, and I don't mind roughing it for this last trip, so we'll see what it's like. I can always try to upgrade on the train itself; that is usually possible, and you pay the porter the difference. It was much cheaper this way anyway; less than US$10 for a 26 hour, 1279 km (795 mile) journey. The AC cars are 3 times as much.
I get to Chennai (formerly Madras), the big city down there, on Tuesday at 10pm or so, too late to head out that night. I'll spend the night at a retiring room in the train station itself, or more probably at one of the guest houses nearby. Early the next morning, I want to leave for Pondicherry, a town I've always wanted to see. It was a French enclave, the one place left to them by the British, and still has a French feel to it apparently. Wednesday is, appropriately enough, Bastille Day, which is celebrated there with parades and other festivities. I'll arrive as early as I can (it's a 4 hour bus trip from Chennai), and spend 5 or so days there, depending on how I like it.
From there I plan to visit Mamalapuram, a friendly traveler's enclave on the beach, with seafood restaurants and palm trees and temples. I'll relax there for another 5 days or so, doing nothing but reading and eating and walking. (I look forward to visiting Krishna's Butter Ball, a large, precariously balanced stone formation. Oh how Krishna loves his butter.)
The other place I plan to see on this little trip is the holy town of Tirupathi, and the nearby temple at Tirumala. It's a famous Hindu pilgrimage site, apparently attracting more religious visitors than Mecca, Jerusalem or Rome, though it gets very few Western tourists. I want to end my year in India with a visit there, to express my love and gratitude for the time I've had here, ending it with a spiritual focus, as a resident, an Indian by nature if not by birth, and not as a tourist, not as an outsider. I will walk with the thousands of pilgrims to spend a few moments with the deity, and give great thanks for this amazing year, before I leave this country, and head back to my real family.
I'll have a few days in Mumbai when I return, and I will, as I have been doing in these weeks since I returned from Hampi, enjoy my beloved city. I've been taking long ambles around town, talking to the people, visiting my favorite restaurants, shopping for mementos (and pretty things for Heather), and enjoying the ambiance. Tonight I walked home from Waterfield Road and Linking Road, after drinking lemon tea at a new bakery there.
The other night, I walked home from Juhu beach. Actually, the linked map was not my route. I walked directly from Point A to Point B, through no man's land. I walked as far on the beach as I could, a beautiful seaside walk along the Arabian sea with joggers and young couples and families, enjoying the respite from the ever-present monsoon rains, until the sea encroached and blocked my path. I turned East, inland, and found myself in the middle of the poorest slum I have seen here. On the google map, it's just empty, and it's true that there were no roads, no cars, no rickshaws. There was only semi-permanent, hastily built homes, with blue tarps as walls and roofs, and thin beams of recovered wood in the corners for structure. The alleys between them were so narrow that you had to turn sideways to pass anyone, with only garbage and mud underfoot. There was no electricity, just the light of fires and wood stoves, and no running water. I was lost. I was looking for a rickshaw but was in the middle of this neighborhood, with nary a vehicle to be found.
In any other country in the world, I might have been scared to be in such a neighborhood. But not in Aamchi Mumbai, my Mumbai, my India. I felt as safe and at home as I do anywhere here. I asked a local man to point me toward a rickshaw, and he told me to follow him for a while. (Though the only word spoken between us was "rickshaw".) He led me deeper into the neighborhood (I am reluctant to call it a slum, though anyone would), and then pointed for me to continue, mysteriously saying "boat". I looked in the direction he was pointing, and it was darker, and muddier, and more desolate. Could that be the right way? But I went with my heart and trusted him, and continued, my feet sinking into the mud as I approached the banks of a small inlet of water. It was very dark by then, and before I realized it, I came to the edge of the water, and a small wooden raft. Across the water, i could see lights and vehicles and the rest of the city. I had to cross the water to get to my rickshaw. There was a boy on the small raft. It was about 10 feet square, and he was about 10 years old. I climbed aboard, and he pushed his big bamboo pole into the bottom of the waterbed, and ferried us across. I thanked him with 2 rupee, and carefully stepped off. I walked in the direction I knew had to be right, and after a couple dark blocks, came to a busy street, filled with rickshaws and vendors selling things on the streets, and small shops. And i recognized it! It was the road I always drive down on my way to Juhu. I knew where I was! It was close enough to my neighborhood, so I walked along the road. I stopped at one vendor selling sheets, I had bought some from him a month or so ago, and he recognized me, beamed a smile at me when he saw me, and started to show me more sheets. I wasn't buying that night, but I smiled back. I finished the walk back, got home, washed my feet, and settled into my apartment. What a night, what a walk through the city, parts I had never seen, until coming to parts I recognized. I do so love it here. But I'm also ready to come back.
04 July 2010
A week in Hampi
The monsoon has been raining down in Mumbai all morning, like millions of overturned buckets. i'm making coffee at home. The last couple of days have seen very light rain, and I was going to head to a nice new bakery that opened up nearby, but not this morning. The rain is an ongoing presence; when it's not actively coming down, it's looming in the clouds, gathering. It's soaking into my clothes and skin, leaking from my ceiling, and sneaking in to my internet cables, disrupting my service. (A technician came by to fix it, cut the wire, whipped it, and drops of water came out. No wonder i heard a sizzling sound from the modem.)
I did escape the rain for a while; I got back a few days ago from a week-long trip to Hampi, in Karnataka state, about 720 km (450 miles) to the southeast. Hampi is the location of a remarkable Hindu empire from the 15th century. The landscape is dotted with giant granite boulders and the shade of banana trees, and many old temples, statues and the ruins of royal buildings. People who visited from other places, like the ancient Persian empire, wrote about it as being the most lavish, comfortable, beautiful empire they had ever seen. Today, it's a UN World Heritage site, so no new building is allowed, and the old ruins are well preserved. You can visit the Queen's Bath, a building with a pool larger than an olympic-sized pool, where the queen would swim; and the elephant stables, where the herd of royal elephants was kept; and the royal palace grounds, where only the foundations remain, but you can still make out the royal seating areas with vast open fields in front, where sporting events and performances took place in front of the king; and many amazing, beautiful temples, with large stone statues of Ganesh or Krishna or Vishnu. Also in Hampi, right in the middle of the town, is a big temple, 30 meters high, and inside lives happy Lakshmi the temple elephant. Lakshmi is 22 years old, very well loved and cared for, and gives blessing to anyone with a coin. You hold out a coin, she grabs it with her trunk, puts it in the collection box, and then bops you gently on the head with her trunk as a blessing. And let me tell you, if you've never been gently bopped on the head by an elephant, it's really fun. Every morning they take her down to the river for a bath, and on most evenings she's featured in a little parade through the streets of the town. Everyone loves Lakshmi, and she graces everyone with her beauty and blessings of good luck. I was lucky to get a blessing from her on my first visit to Hampi in 2004, and extra lucky to get another one this time.
It was a nice, quiet week. I read about 500 pages of Shantaram, the epic novel I'm reading. I might actually finish it now! The pace of life is sooooo slow there, everything is so peaceful and gentle. The children are friendly but not crazy, mostly minding their own business unless you approach their cricket game and express interest in joining, which they immediately invite you to do. The adults are quiet and happy and spend a lot of time just sitting together. It functions as a small village; poor but not slum-destitute. They have their animals and their gardens and live simply but happily. It was nice to get out of the bustle of the city for a while.
I traveled there by bus; it was great to be on the road again. It took about 14 hours going and about 12 hours back. I think we saved a couple hours of traffic in Mumbai on the way back, because we arrived very early in the morning, whereas we left the city in the bustle of the evening. It was a comfortable overnight bus, air-conditioned, with blankets on each seat. Both times I sat next to a large, snoring Indian man, but that's to be expected traveling alone. They both were all over the armrest, and Indian men have no issue about touching strangers in a situation like that (you should see the commuter train, everyone packed in, touching tightly), so i could either rub right up against them on the armrest, or cede my position. I did both, at various times. Mostly I just plugged in my iPod and looked out the window or slept.
On the way out of Hampi at the end of the week, I had my rickshaw driver, Mr. Paul, take me to a couple more temples and palace ruins before heading to the bus. I went to one temple on the top of a hill that was about 600 years old, and was about to head back, when Mr Paul asked me if I saw the view from the other side. I had not, and he told me to go through a little door in the wall on the far side of the temple, and beyond it there were supposed to be spectacular views of the valley. I did, and it was amazing. You could see many of the other temples and ruins, lush greenery, and amazing rock formations. There was also a smaller temple, at the top of a little hillock, a little further up, that looked enticing, so I climbed up the lunar landscape to check it out. As I got close, a voice from within the temple called me closer.
The small temple was inhabited, and he invited me in, so I left my shoes outside, ducked through the doorway, and entered. It was a small space, almost a cave carved out of the stone, with a bedroll in one corner, several books on a shelf, with one large one opened on a table, and a area for prayers in the back, with a couple of statues of Ganesh and Vishnu. Above Vishnu there was a brass container filled with water, dripping onto Vishnu's head and the flowers that were spread around the statue of the god. The gentleman that lived there was bright eyed and soft spoken. His name was Pramanand Shashtri and he lived in that little cave, studying his books and meditating all day long. He was a scholar, having earned a Doctorate in Sanskrit, the language of the ancient religious texts. We talked, and did a little prayer together, and looked at his books for a while. Another Incredible India moment, just before heading out of town. It's one of the things I love about this country; India rewards me for friendliness and curiosity. There is magic around every bend, and behind every bright, sincere smile.
I took the overnight bus back to Mumbai, and when I got back it was raining in the city. I caught a rickshaw back to my apartment feeling calm and peaceful, bringing a little of the spirit of Hampi back with me.
There are lots of photos of Hampi at this link. Here are a few samples, you can click on them to make them larger:
Landscape on the way to the Vittala temple
15th century ruins and temple
Vittala temple (note the stone chariot)
Caught in the rain on the way back from Vittala.
Took shelter for a while, but still got soaked.
I did escape the rain for a while; I got back a few days ago from a week-long trip to Hampi, in Karnataka state, about 720 km (450 miles) to the southeast. Hampi is the location of a remarkable Hindu empire from the 15th century. The landscape is dotted with giant granite boulders and the shade of banana trees, and many old temples, statues and the ruins of royal buildings. People who visited from other places, like the ancient Persian empire, wrote about it as being the most lavish, comfortable, beautiful empire they had ever seen. Today, it's a UN World Heritage site, so no new building is allowed, and the old ruins are well preserved. You can visit the Queen's Bath, a building with a pool larger than an olympic-sized pool, where the queen would swim; and the elephant stables, where the herd of royal elephants was kept; and the royal palace grounds, where only the foundations remain, but you can still make out the royal seating areas with vast open fields in front, where sporting events and performances took place in front of the king; and many amazing, beautiful temples, with large stone statues of Ganesh or Krishna or Vishnu. Also in Hampi, right in the middle of the town, is a big temple, 30 meters high, and inside lives happy Lakshmi the temple elephant. Lakshmi is 22 years old, very well loved and cared for, and gives blessing to anyone with a coin. You hold out a coin, she grabs it with her trunk, puts it in the collection box, and then bops you gently on the head with her trunk as a blessing. And let me tell you, if you've never been gently bopped on the head by an elephant, it's really fun. Every morning they take her down to the river for a bath, and on most evenings she's featured in a little parade through the streets of the town. Everyone loves Lakshmi, and she graces everyone with her beauty and blessings of good luck. I was lucky to get a blessing from her on my first visit to Hampi in 2004, and extra lucky to get another one this time.
It was a nice, quiet week. I read about 500 pages of Shantaram, the epic novel I'm reading. I might actually finish it now! The pace of life is sooooo slow there, everything is so peaceful and gentle. The children are friendly but not crazy, mostly minding their own business unless you approach their cricket game and express interest in joining, which they immediately invite you to do. The adults are quiet and happy and spend a lot of time just sitting together. It functions as a small village; poor but not slum-destitute. They have their animals and their gardens and live simply but happily. It was nice to get out of the bustle of the city for a while.
I traveled there by bus; it was great to be on the road again. It took about 14 hours going and about 12 hours back. I think we saved a couple hours of traffic in Mumbai on the way back, because we arrived very early in the morning, whereas we left the city in the bustle of the evening. It was a comfortable overnight bus, air-conditioned, with blankets on each seat. Both times I sat next to a large, snoring Indian man, but that's to be expected traveling alone. They both were all over the armrest, and Indian men have no issue about touching strangers in a situation like that (you should see the commuter train, everyone packed in, touching tightly), so i could either rub right up against them on the armrest, or cede my position. I did both, at various times. Mostly I just plugged in my iPod and looked out the window or slept.
On the way out of Hampi at the end of the week, I had my rickshaw driver, Mr. Paul, take me to a couple more temples and palace ruins before heading to the bus. I went to one temple on the top of a hill that was about 600 years old, and was about to head back, when Mr Paul asked me if I saw the view from the other side. I had not, and he told me to go through a little door in the wall on the far side of the temple, and beyond it there were supposed to be spectacular views of the valley. I did, and it was amazing. You could see many of the other temples and ruins, lush greenery, and amazing rock formations. There was also a smaller temple, at the top of a little hillock, a little further up, that looked enticing, so I climbed up the lunar landscape to check it out. As I got close, a voice from within the temple called me closer.
The small temple was inhabited, and he invited me in, so I left my shoes outside, ducked through the doorway, and entered. It was a small space, almost a cave carved out of the stone, with a bedroll in one corner, several books on a shelf, with one large one opened on a table, and a area for prayers in the back, with a couple of statues of Ganesh and Vishnu. Above Vishnu there was a brass container filled with water, dripping onto Vishnu's head and the flowers that were spread around the statue of the god. The gentleman that lived there was bright eyed and soft spoken. His name was Pramanand Shashtri and he lived in that little cave, studying his books and meditating all day long. He was a scholar, having earned a Doctorate in Sanskrit, the language of the ancient religious texts. We talked, and did a little prayer together, and looked at his books for a while. Another Incredible India moment, just before heading out of town. It's one of the things I love about this country; India rewards me for friendliness and curiosity. There is magic around every bend, and behind every bright, sincere smile.
I took the overnight bus back to Mumbai, and when I got back it was raining in the city. I caught a rickshaw back to my apartment feeling calm and peaceful, bringing a little of the spirit of Hampi back with me.
There are lots of photos of Hampi at this link. Here are a few samples, you can click on them to make them larger:
Sunset over the River in Hampi
Vittala Temple
Getting a blessing from Lakshmi in 2004
Sri Pramanand Shashtri
Landscape on the way to the Vittala temple
15th century ruins and temple
Vittala temple (note the stone chariot)
Caught in the rain on the way back from Vittala.
Took shelter for a while, but still got soaked.
Crossing the river in a coracle boat; water had to be bailed out after each trip.
I was waiting to catch it for the return trip.
16 June 2010
Fame
I was walking home today during a break from the monsoonical outbursts, and I took the back alley. I haven't gone that way in a while, because there's a dog back there that doesn't like me, and I don't want to get bitten and have to get rabies shots again, like I did in 1995. But the street dogs have been scarce since the rains began, and this one is usually only there at night, so I braved it.
I like going that way because it's quieter than the main road, and there are lots of people, especially kids, outside playing in those courtyards. I've stopped for many a turn at bowling or batting in one of their street cricket games while walking through that alley.
So as I passed a group of three teenage guys that I had never seen before, we smiled and said hi to each other, as we usually do in this neighborhood.
As I started to pass them, however, they stopped me and gave me a thrill. They told me they knew me from the article I wrote. "Newspaper", "IPL", they said.
"Your name is Richard."
Awesome.
I said, "Wow, I'm famous" and they replied, "Yes, everyone around here knows who you are."
How fun is that??
(Very!)
I like going that way because it's quieter than the main road, and there are lots of people, especially kids, outside playing in those courtyards. I've stopped for many a turn at bowling or batting in one of their street cricket games while walking through that alley.
So as I passed a group of three teenage guys that I had never seen before, we smiled and said hi to each other, as we usually do in this neighborhood.
As I started to pass them, however, they stopped me and gave me a thrill. They told me they knew me from the article I wrote. "Newspaper", "IPL", they said.
"Your name is Richard."
Awesome.
I said, "Wow, I'm famous" and they replied, "Yes, everyone around here knows who you are."
How fun is that??
(Very!)
14 June 2010
Deluge
Wow. They are NOT KIDDING about this monsoon thing.
It rained all last night, and most of the day. I left my apartment around 7 to get some dinner, and when I left, it was coming down, but not unreasonably so. I brought my umbrella and caught a rickshaw towards 16th road.
By the time I got to the corner of 16th and KFC road, it was pouring. I got out of the rick and made it to the restaurant, which had some covered outdoor seating. It was dry and cool, and I could watch the rain from there, so I stayed and ate. Even it was an amazing meal, by the way, masala baby corn (breaded spicy baby corn appetizer), paneer makhni (cheese cubes in a tomato/butter sauce), buttered naan (doughy bread cooked over an open flame), and a fresh lime soda (lime juice, soda water, and liquid sugar). Very delicious, and only 350 rupee ($7.50).
By the time I had finished, it had been pouring the whole time, and the world was covered in water. The streets were flowing, and it was still pouring from the skies. People were fearlessly slogging through ankle-deep water. I sat for a while and then headed out of the restaurant and into the weather. My first step completely submerged my shoes and bottom couple inches of my pants. My umbrella was useless within moments. It was amazing how quickly I was soaked. I crossed to street to catch a rickshaw home, and that side of the street was even deeper. I stood in the rain trying to hail a rick as they passed by, all full. Finally, one stopped. It was a 12 rupee ride; he offered to take me for 500. I talked him down to 30 (mostly because I know the Hindi word for 30) and got in.
The ride was absurd. Motorcyles and scooters were being walked by their waterlogged drivers. Some streets were okay, some were little torrents, 2 or 3 feet deep. The driver and I were laughing the whole time, and singing a little song we made up, an ode to water. "Pani pani pani, pani, pani", over and over.
We got to my street, and I needed to make a left, but that corner was particularly flooded, and he wanted to stop. Fortunately, just then a couple other rickshaws came rolling by, water up to their axles, but I encouraged him, pointing out the other ricks, telling him he could make it. He gave it a go. The traffic was crawling, and we inched closer to home, still singing our little pani song.
Finally, his poor, long-suffering rickshaw stalled and refused to start again, so we called it quits. It was close enough for me to walk, even in the rain. I helped him push his rickshaw to the side of the rode, gave him 50 for his trouble (still about a dollar), and started walking.
you have to give up any notion of keeping the tops of your feet dry. They were just submerged. My clothes were soaked. I was cold outside for the first time since we were in the Himalaya. I think I prefer my shirts being soaked because of sweat than rain. Still, I could do nothing but sing and laugh. And life went on; the chicken shack was still selling chickens, the wada pav shop was still frying and selling wada pavs. I stopped at a little shop and bought some gems (cadbury's version of m&m's) and made it home. Stopped to talk about the rain with the neighbor kids, went inside my place, peeled off my clothes, and took a hot shower.
As I sit here, it seems that it's stopped outside, but it could start again at any moment. It was fun for a while though.
I'm seriously considering heading out of town for a few days.
It rained all last night, and most of the day. I left my apartment around 7 to get some dinner, and when I left, it was coming down, but not unreasonably so. I brought my umbrella and caught a rickshaw towards 16th road.
By the time I got to the corner of 16th and KFC road, it was pouring. I got out of the rick and made it to the restaurant, which had some covered outdoor seating. It was dry and cool, and I could watch the rain from there, so I stayed and ate. Even it was an amazing meal, by the way, masala baby corn (breaded spicy baby corn appetizer), paneer makhni (cheese cubes in a tomato/butter sauce), buttered naan (doughy bread cooked over an open flame), and a fresh lime soda (lime juice, soda water, and liquid sugar). Very delicious, and only 350 rupee ($7.50).
By the time I had finished, it had been pouring the whole time, and the world was covered in water. The streets were flowing, and it was still pouring from the skies. People were fearlessly slogging through ankle-deep water. I sat for a while and then headed out of the restaurant and into the weather. My first step completely submerged my shoes and bottom couple inches of my pants. My umbrella was useless within moments. It was amazing how quickly I was soaked. I crossed to street to catch a rickshaw home, and that side of the street was even deeper. I stood in the rain trying to hail a rick as they passed by, all full. Finally, one stopped. It was a 12 rupee ride; he offered to take me for 500. I talked him down to 30 (mostly because I know the Hindi word for 30) and got in.
The ride was absurd. Motorcyles and scooters were being walked by their waterlogged drivers. Some streets were okay, some were little torrents, 2 or 3 feet deep. The driver and I were laughing the whole time, and singing a little song we made up, an ode to water. "Pani pani pani, pani, pani", over and over.
We got to my street, and I needed to make a left, but that corner was particularly flooded, and he wanted to stop. Fortunately, just then a couple other rickshaws came rolling by, water up to their axles, but I encouraged him, pointing out the other ricks, telling him he could make it. He gave it a go. The traffic was crawling, and we inched closer to home, still singing our little pani song.
Finally, his poor, long-suffering rickshaw stalled and refused to start again, so we called it quits. It was close enough for me to walk, even in the rain. I helped him push his rickshaw to the side of the rode, gave him 50 for his trouble (still about a dollar), and started walking.
you have to give up any notion of keeping the tops of your feet dry. They were just submerged. My clothes were soaked. I was cold outside for the first time since we were in the Himalaya. I think I prefer my shirts being soaked because of sweat than rain. Still, I could do nothing but sing and laugh. And life went on; the chicken shack was still selling chickens, the wada pav shop was still frying and selling wada pavs. I stopped at a little shop and bought some gems (cadbury's version of m&m's) and made it home. Stopped to talk about the rain with the neighbor kids, went inside my place, peeled off my clothes, and took a hot shower.
As I sit here, it seems that it's stopped outside, but it could start again at any moment. It was fun for a while though.
I'm seriously considering heading out of town for a few days.
27 May 2010
Full moon over Juhu Beach
A woman once said to the great violinist Fritz Kreisler after a recital, "I'd give my life to play as beautifully as you!"
"Madam", Kreisler replied, "I have."
May all beings experience happiness and the causes of happiness, and be free from suffering and the causes of suffering.
-- Buddhist prayer
It's a full moon tonight, corresponding with the holiday of Buddha Poornima, the celebration of Buddha's birthday.
I went back to Juhu; the Sea View for dinner, and a gola for dessert. I like it there. It overlooks the beach, and the teeming crowds. Families going to the beach, lovers holding hands, groups of young men or women out together, and the vendors, selling maps or toys or food or chai or henna stamps, or just bringing scales to the beach, and weighing people for 5 rupees each, the scale lighting up in vibrant colors before reporting its results. The moon rose behind us, and joined all of us as we overlooked the sea, the wind cooling us and lifting kites, the sand massaging between our toes.
I've been a little sad lately, a little lonely. I can hear the clock ticking on me, can feel my time here slipping away. I'm certainly ready to get out of this city, even ready to leave the country, come back to the States, see what's next, build a new life. But at the same time, as I feel the time passing, as I can measure my time left here in weeks, even days, I am fighting it, I am holding on.
Each person we lose, everything that comes and goes, all the things and people and interactions and experiences that honor the stage of our lives for a moment, or a day, or a decade, and then walk off the stage, never to reappear, each loss is like a little death. and while we try to let the stream of time flow by us with grace, with acceptance, every instinct we have tells us to hold on, tightly, forever, hold on and never let go.
I'm absorbing everything. Every time i go to one of the stores on my street that I frequent, to speak a little Hindi and buy milk, or chocolate, or breakfast, each conversation is treasured and i'm savoring it all. Each time Sachin shaves me; each time Prakash teaches me another word of Marathi as I buy drinking water from him; each trip to the beach; each bite of food; each visit with a neighbor- I am trying to draw it all in, absorb it deeply. I looked over Juhu beach at the Arabian sea tonight, and let it burn itself into my brain. Someday, very soon, that image will be a memory. One I will always be grateful for. I've loved this dream-come-true, loved it more when I wasn't alone here, but I've loved every precious moment, I just hope I haven't sacrificed too much for it. Because whatever poverty I face, whatever starting over I face, whatever hard work awaits me, still, I wouldn't have traded this for anything, but i hope i haven't lost too much in making this dream come true, and i hope i'm not losing too much in making the next dream come true. And I hope and trust that the people that are waiting for me know this, will forgive me my self-indulgence, and will greet me when I return with open arms and open hearts, and I will try to let go, to appreciate what I've had, and, as I've always done, to run towards what's next.
"Madam", Kreisler replied, "I have."
May all beings experience happiness and the causes of happiness, and be free from suffering and the causes of suffering.
-- Buddhist prayer
It's a full moon tonight, corresponding with the holiday of Buddha Poornima, the celebration of Buddha's birthday.
I went back to Juhu; the Sea View for dinner, and a gola for dessert. I like it there. It overlooks the beach, and the teeming crowds. Families going to the beach, lovers holding hands, groups of young men or women out together, and the vendors, selling maps or toys or food or chai or henna stamps, or just bringing scales to the beach, and weighing people for 5 rupees each, the scale lighting up in vibrant colors before reporting its results. The moon rose behind us, and joined all of us as we overlooked the sea, the wind cooling us and lifting kites, the sand massaging between our toes.
I've been a little sad lately, a little lonely. I can hear the clock ticking on me, can feel my time here slipping away. I'm certainly ready to get out of this city, even ready to leave the country, come back to the States, see what's next, build a new life. But at the same time, as I feel the time passing, as I can measure my time left here in weeks, even days, I am fighting it, I am holding on.
Each person we lose, everything that comes and goes, all the things and people and interactions and experiences that honor the stage of our lives for a moment, or a day, or a decade, and then walk off the stage, never to reappear, each loss is like a little death. and while we try to let the stream of time flow by us with grace, with acceptance, every instinct we have tells us to hold on, tightly, forever, hold on and never let go.
I'm absorbing everything. Every time i go to one of the stores on my street that I frequent, to speak a little Hindi and buy milk, or chocolate, or breakfast, each conversation is treasured and i'm savoring it all. Each time Sachin shaves me; each time Prakash teaches me another word of Marathi as I buy drinking water from him; each trip to the beach; each bite of food; each visit with a neighbor- I am trying to draw it all in, absorb it deeply. I looked over Juhu beach at the Arabian sea tonight, and let it burn itself into my brain. Someday, very soon, that image will be a memory. One I will always be grateful for. I've loved this dream-come-true, loved it more when I wasn't alone here, but I've loved every precious moment, I just hope I haven't sacrificed too much for it. Because whatever poverty I face, whatever starting over I face, whatever hard work awaits me, still, I wouldn't have traded this for anything, but i hope i haven't lost too much in making this dream come true, and i hope i'm not losing too much in making the next dream come true. And I hope and trust that the people that are waiting for me know this, will forgive me my self-indulgence, and will greet me when I return with open arms and open hearts, and I will try to let go, to appreciate what I've had, and, as I've always done, to run towards what's next.
Juhu Beach, Mumbai
the people, the sea
dessert
my gola stand
mine was blue and yellow tonight
04 May 2010
My first live cricket match - full version
I wrote this after attending the semi-finals of the Indian Premier League, which was my first live cricket match.
An edited version was published in today's Hindustan Times, HTCafe section, page 23.
As an American, I grew up knowing nothing about cricket. Despite being a former British colony, it’s not a sport we play, or watch, at all. But after traveling to India as a tourist and volunteering at an NGO in Mumbai, I have come to understand why the game is so beloved here, and in so much of the world.
I live in an apartment in Danda, in west Khar, which still feels like the small fishing village it once was, in the middle of the grand and glorious metropolis of Mumbai. My neighbors are all welcoming and friendly, and often offer me tea, inquire as to whether I’ve had sufficient food for the day, and invite me into their homes to watch cricket on television. And although I was starting from scratch, I’ve learned much about the game. I became familiar with players like Sachin and Sehwag and Dhoni, and some of the many, often obscure rules. Of course there are many things that still baffle me. Dot balls? Googly? Popping crease? But I started really enjoying the game, and even I sometimes play with the local children in my neighborhood with their plastic bats and balls. But I had never seen a major cricket game in person, and I knew I would have to sometime before leaving this fine country that I love so much.
So when the IPL took place this Spring, with its exciting 20-20 format, I quickly became a huge fan of my local team, the Mumbai Indians. And when I realized that the semi-finals were going to be played in Navi Mumbai, I knew I had my chance to attend my first ever live cricket match.
Tickets went on sale just a couple days before the game. I heard that they were being sold at a few places throughout the city, so I went to an auto parts store in Bandra to look for them. Of course, by the time I arrived, they were fully sold out. I received a couple curious smiles when I jumped up and down in my frustration at not being able to buy tickets. Who is this crazy foreigner who so wants to attend the semi-finals?
So I looked online, and found someone selling tickets. We talked on the phone and arranged the purchase on the day of the match.
My friend and I decided to take the train to Nerul and catch a rickshaw from there to the stadium. Although somewhat crowded, the train was surely the best way to travel there, and we arrived quickly. Although I have been all around India, from Kashmir to Kerala, I haven’t been out of Mumbai in a couple months, and was struck with how peaceful and green everything became as soon as we crossed the canal into Navi Mumbai.
As we got closer, more and more people around us were heading to the game. We could feel the excitement growing. When we got out at Nerul station, the rickshaws were there ferrying people to the stadium, and my friend and I jumped in one with a third passenger, and got as close as we could, until the point where the police were stopping the vehicles.
We got out and started to walk. All the way, people were selling shirts and caps, and painting people’s faces in the team colors of blue and gold, and the national colors of saffron, white and green. We walked around to gate 5, past long lines of people waiting to get inside. Fortunately, when we got to our gate, there was no line. We went in, and the atmosphere was positively electric. We headed into the stadium, and as we saw the pitch, our view opened up into a great, green, round field, surrounded by stands that were about to hold 50,000 screaming fans. We took our seats in the 10th row of the lower section, and immediately met everyone around us. In general, I find people here to be very friendly, and this crowd was especially so. I pulled my cell phone out to take some photos, and both the students in front of me and the family behind me asked me to take their photos, gave me their email IDs, and asked me to send them the photos later, which of course I did. We chatted with all our neighbors, waved our blue and gold flags around, and enjoyed some drinks and snacks. Everyone was happy to see foreigners there, engaging in the spirit of the game. Watching the game together, as a little community in our section, made the experience even more special.
The game started, and the home team won the toss and elected to bat first. It was amazing how in love with Sachin everyone was. We chanted his name, and screamed like mad every time he batted or appeared on the big screen. When he exited the game early, we were devastated, but we knew the rest of the team could pull us through. And pull through they did, with Tiwari and Rayudu playing a great partnership, and Kieron Pollard of the West Indies bowling and batting brilliantly. The Indians produced many runs in the last few overs, bringing our score to 184 runs, a formidable score indeed.
I walked around during the interval, drank a few cups of cold coffee and iced tea, wandered among the crowd, enjoying all the people and the unique occasion. Even the locals knew we were at a special game.
As the game went on, the sides switched, and while the Royal Challengers Bangalore (RCB) played well, the inevitability of our victory became more and more apparent, and our excitement grew. And when there were only a few balls left, and it was impossible for RBC to catch up, the crowd went even more wild than before.
It was a long journey back, with all 50000 people heading home together, but no one seemed to mind. We caught the last few trains of the night and had to switch trains a couple times, but we travelled with a few others who had been at the game. Everyone seemed thrilled that we Americans had taken the effort to attend, had dressed up in the team colors, and were celebrating with our adopted city.
I know that for many Indians, coming to the West is a dream they work hard at making a reality. For me, the opposite is true. Living in India is a dream come true, and I am enjoying every crazy, beautiful moment.
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