Characteristic of many emerging countries, there's a resourcefulness and resilience that belies western sensibilities. I first noticed it at one of the shrines, when I realized that young men were recollecting the flowers placed on the tombs along with plastic bags disgarded at the door by the piglrims and repackaging them for the next wave of visitors. Empty water bottles are gold, used for everything from selling Gangas water to carry for puja, to one man's ingenious system of piping 'drinking' water from a public faucet across the stone sink into a 40 gallon jug on the ground, three liter sized bottles cut and formed to a temporary water duct. Fabrics are repurposed from sari to quilt to pillow cover or window shading as sections wear thin. And this morning it took three explanations for me to understand that "no, I cannot give you or even sell you a 'go cup' for your unfinished coffee," because the boss reconciled cups with register receipts.
Mornings there's an American migration down the trail to a 'real' coffee shop. It's nice to sit in the shop window looking across the road to the river before returning to the hotel for provided breakfast: oatmeal, vegetable paddies, onion pakora and jellied toast with the omnipresent masala chai. If you oversleep it's gulp and run or sip and take half back with you. So OK, I bought a second cup to go in cardboard and will bring the empty paper back with me for tomorrow's fix.
Today I prefer to be alone - not easy with so many warm and friendly companions, new and old, eager to share adventure and experience. After breakfast I did a balance for a fellow journeyer, then set off at a liesurely pace for my coveted Ayurvedic massage appointment. I'm really picky about who I allow to work on me, so apprehension followed me in the door of the tiny reception area of Baba Center on the hill. A tiny sprite of an Indian woman leads me through a curtain into a dimly lit and richly fragrant room and bids me strip and lie down on the floor mat. By the end of the hour I'm a convert. With hands, elbows and feet she expertly massages my whole body with specific oils for various areas from the top of my head (ecstatic) to the very tip of each little toe (pop!). A good dose of accupressure and tai massage completes complete relaxation of every twinge and complaint.
Rounding the bend back towards the German cafe I pick up another yoga pant and t-shirt - this one embroidered with the flower of life. Then I spot it. A 'real' back-packing back pack for US$55 that in the states would run in the hundreds. I'll need a second bag to check coming home to carry my hoard of pashmina gifts and hand-made paper journals. This bag's a find in a couple of days of 'finds.'
I write to you now from a German Bakery (the best of several here) on the east bank of Luxman, northern edge. There's a music and drum ritual going on across the river, visitors and expats come and go throughout the afternoon. The sun shines across my lap as I spill forth these memories for you, the peace of the day wrippled by the occasional beep of a scooter horn or hierarchical squabble of monkeys on the bridge below. There's so much to see and do, but today is a day to BE so I'll sit here awhile longer, until it's time to climb the hill for sunset yoga on the roof once more.
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Thursday 26 January - Walkabout/ Shopabout Rishikesh
There's a subterranean energy flow here that's not so much beneath the ground as it is buried under mountains of commercialism. Although we did see at least one Ayurvedic Massage center that looked like a Walnut Street salon - from its squeaky clean, minimalist lobbie sporting shelves of mass-production products, to its ad-agency brochure, This shoppe is an anomally here. And certainly not where I'll have my massage. The rest of Luxman is a specific form commercialism in the way of market-stall clutter. Cluttercialism.
It may be an undercurrent, but it can't be denied, that powerful coursing of energy that's not just the surge of the Ganga a mere100 feet away. It's the energy of hundreds of years of thousands of devotees who've left millions of gold-dust footprints on this path.
At 70 and sunny, this day is a perfect invitation for a casual meandering stroll. These sort-of-paved roads encourage mindful walking, with only occasional bicycles and jeeps to be dodged while countless Rishis flow by like vapor trails on a parallel dimension. That's it. That's the feeling. You can feel the convergence of layers of reality here. It's not like the vortexes we experienced at the darghas in Delhi, Agra and Ajmere (Cathedral Rock and the Bell Dome, Sedona). Here, the entire canyon buzzes with the interchange of protons from one level to another to another and back again, faster than the nano-nano blink of an eye, a holographic vibration rather than a movement, a shimmer of effervescence weaving the layers together.
Luxman Julla, where we are staying, is to Rishikesh kind of as Ardmore is to Center City, and our hotel is at the northern edge of this 'suburb.' This isn't Kansas... nor suburban Philadelphia. Every time we step from our door, we're adorned by the bindi painter, " No charge!" although I do end up buying one of his little kits of intensely colored pwderw and pot-metal decorative stamps for about a dollar. What a hoot, tho - just try to do this for yourself! As I go out again, with my own crude attempt smeared across my brow, he swoops at me, wipes my forehead clean and with a flurry of hands and powder, creates another masterpiece around my third eye. He is truly an artist.
Restaurants and ashrams line the rocky shore of the 2-block-wide 'town' sandwiched between the river and the steep climb of the foothills of the Himalayans. It's a fat kilometer to Ramjhoola bridge, where Kerry and I head, intent upon sampling Ashtanga kirtan and yoga across the river. For four hours we just sort of drift along like butterflies on the breeze of shopping nirvana, sampling the garden of Luxman Julla: pashminas, statuary, semi-precious jewels, diety paintings and yoga clothes; from Nepal, Tibet, and all regions of India. I'm bringing a fabulous singing bowl back to classes, and couldn't resist a handmade pair of lapis blue yoga pants for $6 and a t-shirt of flaming red embroidered with a turquoise Gynesh for just $4. Topped by a deep purple pashmina from Ajmere, and adorned by a rose wood and ohm-medallion bracelet (fifty cents) I'm a walking treasure chest of jeweltones! In one day I've used up my shopping mojo for the entire trip!
Another couple of kilometers south along the west-bank marketplace, Kerrie spots a sign for a Lonely Planet-recommended restaurant. The second story glassed-in porch affords views of the river and lunch is luxurious. From our window table we watch the comings and goings of the ferry-launch. All afternoon, the barge lets off passengers onto the landing below, like the spilling of an upended box of crayolla crayons across the flood-plain floor. Indian's color taste matches their zest for spicy food!
Flavor Restaurant: the onion pakoras are to sing for, and the Chinese fried rice very good as well. The best chai masala so far. Everything's made to order from scratch so it's long in coming, which suites us just fine. We sit and chat, and look, and graze, and hold silence, too. Ahhhh. Two hours later, when we head to the counter to pay our bill (several course lunch for the two of us for under $7), the owner says "I like your attitude around eating - you stay and talk and don't talk and look out over the river. You really taste the food... most people inhale and run!"
Shivanand ashram is lovely, the complex neatly climbs the west bank, hugging courtyards of benches, trees and bogenvalea dotted with Hindu style buildings. It's a sweet place to sit and talk with a yogini we meet. She's 90 if she's a day, narrow of word, wide of thought, and absolutely correct in advising us not to take the yoga class here. Wish we had listened to her. The teacher's Japanese, impossible to understand, rigid, arrogant and pushy, not really a teacher at all, more like a drill sargent. One-size-fits-all yoga. She shoves Kerrie's knee straight in headstand, slaps my hands away from my face because she doesn't like the bandu I'm using, and then tells Kerrie, in shoulder stand, (with no props!) to turn her head and look at her 'neighbor' (!) in order to get the leg position perfect (sort of an inverted eagle). We're both appalled. I made it clear she's not to touch me again, so she ignores me for the rest of the class and I'm able to use the time and space to do modified versions of the more aggressive postures she demands. The hour's not wasted, my aches and pains and bindings release enough to feel the difference.
Released and exhausted, we can't fathom the long walk ' home,' so it's a scooter back to the hotel's neighborhood for us tonight. Walking back across the Juxman suspension foot bridge, we pause often to drink in the view below - colored lights of ashrams reflecting in the rushing waters downstream dot the darkness of a new moon night.
On another patio overlooking the river, we dwell in grace at the close of a wonderful day. Supper is pizza: "No Madame, not American style, Italion style!" Is it the magic of this place, the ionic charge of such a majestic body or water, or for real? - this brick- oven onion, olive and tomatoe pie is better than most I've tasted!
It may be an undercurrent, but it can't be denied, that powerful coursing of energy that's not just the surge of the Ganga a mere100 feet away. It's the energy of hundreds of years of thousands of devotees who've left millions of gold-dust footprints on this path.
At 70 and sunny, this day is a perfect invitation for a casual meandering stroll. These sort-of-paved roads encourage mindful walking, with only occasional bicycles and jeeps to be dodged while countless Rishis flow by like vapor trails on a parallel dimension. That's it. That's the feeling. You can feel the convergence of layers of reality here. It's not like the vortexes we experienced at the darghas in Delhi, Agra and Ajmere (Cathedral Rock and the Bell Dome, Sedona). Here, the entire canyon buzzes with the interchange of protons from one level to another to another and back again, faster than the nano-nano blink of an eye, a holographic vibration rather than a movement, a shimmer of effervescence weaving the layers together.
Luxman Julla, where we are staying, is to Rishikesh kind of as Ardmore is to Center City, and our hotel is at the northern edge of this 'suburb.' This isn't Kansas... nor suburban Philadelphia. Every time we step from our door, we're adorned by the bindi painter, " No charge!" although I do end up buying one of his little kits of intensely colored pwderw and pot-metal decorative stamps for about a dollar. What a hoot, tho - just try to do this for yourself! As I go out again, with my own crude attempt smeared across my brow, he swoops at me, wipes my forehead clean and with a flurry of hands and powder, creates another masterpiece around my third eye. He is truly an artist.
Restaurants and ashrams line the rocky shore of the 2-block-wide 'town' sandwiched between the river and the steep climb of the foothills of the Himalayans. It's a fat kilometer to Ramjhoola bridge, where Kerry and I head, intent upon sampling Ashtanga kirtan and yoga across the river. For four hours we just sort of drift along like butterflies on the breeze of shopping nirvana, sampling the garden of Luxman Julla: pashminas, statuary, semi-precious jewels, diety paintings and yoga clothes; from Nepal, Tibet, and all regions of India. I'm bringing a fabulous singing bowl back to classes, and couldn't resist a handmade pair of lapis blue yoga pants for $6 and a t-shirt of flaming red embroidered with a turquoise Gynesh for just $4. Topped by a deep purple pashmina from Ajmere, and adorned by a rose wood and ohm-medallion bracelet (fifty cents) I'm a walking treasure chest of jeweltones! In one day I've used up my shopping mojo for the entire trip!
Another couple of kilometers south along the west-bank marketplace, Kerrie spots a sign for a Lonely Planet-recommended restaurant. The second story glassed-in porch affords views of the river and lunch is luxurious. From our window table we watch the comings and goings of the ferry-launch. All afternoon, the barge lets off passengers onto the landing below, like the spilling of an upended box of crayolla crayons across the flood-plain floor. Indian's color taste matches their zest for spicy food!
Flavor Restaurant: the onion pakoras are to sing for, and the Chinese fried rice very good as well. The best chai masala so far. Everything's made to order from scratch so it's long in coming, which suites us just fine. We sit and chat, and look, and graze, and hold silence, too. Ahhhh. Two hours later, when we head to the counter to pay our bill (several course lunch for the two of us for under $7), the owner says "I like your attitude around eating - you stay and talk and don't talk and look out over the river. You really taste the food... most people inhale and run!"
Shivanand ashram is lovely, the complex neatly climbs the west bank, hugging courtyards of benches, trees and bogenvalea dotted with Hindu style buildings. It's a sweet place to sit and talk with a yogini we meet. She's 90 if she's a day, narrow of word, wide of thought, and absolutely correct in advising us not to take the yoga class here. Wish we had listened to her. The teacher's Japanese, impossible to understand, rigid, arrogant and pushy, not really a teacher at all, more like a drill sargent. One-size-fits-all yoga. She shoves Kerrie's knee straight in headstand, slaps my hands away from my face because she doesn't like the bandu I'm using, and then tells Kerrie, in shoulder stand, (with no props!) to turn her head and look at her 'neighbor' (!) in order to get the leg position perfect (sort of an inverted eagle). We're both appalled. I made it clear she's not to touch me again, so she ignores me for the rest of the class and I'm able to use the time and space to do modified versions of the more aggressive postures she demands. The hour's not wasted, my aches and pains and bindings release enough to feel the difference.
Released and exhausted, we can't fathom the long walk ' home,' so it's a scooter back to the hotel's neighborhood for us tonight. Walking back across the Juxman suspension foot bridge, we pause often to drink in the view below - colored lights of ashrams reflecting in the rushing waters downstream dot the darkness of a new moon night.
On another patio overlooking the river, we dwell in grace at the close of a wonderful day. Supper is pizza: "No Madame, not American style, Italion style!" Is it the magic of this place, the ionic charge of such a majestic body or water, or for real? - this brick- oven onion, olive and tomatoe pie is better than most I've tasted!
Wednesday 25 January - Discovering Rishikesh
This bus trip from the Haridwar rail station through Rishikesh to Luxman is a trip. The driver speaks no English, and stops several times along the way, apparently to run personal errands. It's another harrowing assault on traffic until we meet the highway. Here are those verdant hills I wished for, saw in my minds eye, upon waking on the train a few hours ago: grains and sugar cane; cow patties and firewood; gypsy tent cities on the outskirts of villages. Then a turn into the mountains and a nauseatingly rutty, radical switchback dirt road deeper and deeper in and up. Rishikesh finally appears around the next bend, far below on a distant hill. Snapping window shots, just as I think "well this would be a great place to stop for a photo op," the front right tire blows. An ancient spare, bald and bubbled, doesn't inspire confidence. But we make it, with at least three stops along the way for the tour assistant to argue with the driver who wants to drop us hundreds of yards for our destination.
Our hotel is up a flight of stairs, our room is barely big enough to turn around in but we are greatfull for a wash up and a hot lunch. Then we stroll. Rishikesh/Luxman. Cows. Dogs. Bright colored cottages encircled by carefully plotted gardens. Jammed together row upon rows of shops. Clothing, Tibetan bowls, jewelry, shawls, hand worked wood kitchen implements, mobile phones and regional reliquery, paintings of saints and mirrored embroidery. Temples crawl with statues of idols, some painted, some so intricately carved that color would have proved a distraction. Across the river on a wobbling foot bridge to the more popular side of town, prices are appreciably higher and streets a lttle wider. We bargain hard for three large jeeps to take us a kilometer farther, to meet and have tea in the cafe of an old friend.
We're late to the river for Arati, but create our own. A sweet faced urchin lights my sugar cube, and when my launch fails to send my little boat of flowers far enough into the current, she wades after it and helps it to freedom. Against all common sense, I reward her with twenty cents. So you know what happens next. I'm surrounded by cherubs, hands imploring. Their gentle harrishes harmonize with my chanting to the river of life. Beautiful.
Cars carry back to our hotel for panzer in a red creamy sauce, rice and rotti, the ever popular fresh lime soda. Now to precious sleep.
Our hotel is up a flight of stairs, our room is barely big enough to turn around in but we are greatfull for a wash up and a hot lunch. Then we stroll. Rishikesh/Luxman. Cows. Dogs. Bright colored cottages encircled by carefully plotted gardens. Jammed together row upon rows of shops. Clothing, Tibetan bowls, jewelry, shawls, hand worked wood kitchen implements, mobile phones and regional reliquery, paintings of saints and mirrored embroidery. Temples crawl with statues of idols, some painted, some so intricately carved that color would have proved a distraction. Across the river on a wobbling foot bridge to the more popular side of town, prices are appreciably higher and streets a lttle wider. We bargain hard for three large jeeps to take us a kilometer farther, to meet and have tea in the cafe of an old friend.
We're late to the river for Arati, but create our own. A sweet faced urchin lights my sugar cube, and when my launch fails to send my little boat of flowers far enough into the current, she wades after it and helps it to freedom. Against all common sense, I reward her with twenty cents. So you know what happens next. I'm surrounded by cherubs, hands imploring. Their gentle harrishes harmonize with my chanting to the river of life. Beautiful.
Cars carry back to our hotel for panzer in a red creamy sauce, rice and rotti, the ever popular fresh lime soda. Now to precious sleep.
Tuesday 24 January tight Spaces
Tuesday's breakfast is 9am. Woohoo! We get to sleep late! Then it's scooter rickshaws to the Nasiyan Jain Temple Siddhkoot Chaityalaya, commonly called the Red Temple, to wonder at its diorama of the creation of the world and all it's realms. This is a football-sized multi-tiered wet dream of a doll house with processions of costumed priests, palaces and fanciful aeroplanes and marching as well as flying elephants and camels and horses. It's a pure example of jaipur art. I wonder the total weight of the gold?
Built in 864, the palace-like structure that holds the glitz is phenomenal in its own right. Grand, solidly marching pillars frame Hindu and Mogul-style arches, and herein, the rich colors haven't been washed or wind-sand-blasted away as they have in other treasures we've explored. The tables are turned on us at this heritage site as we are made the object of photomania by a group of middle-eastern men. How strange it feels, then silly.
Another three-wheeler ride to Anasagar lake with its water-front promenade and grand pavilions, all of marble. In the 1600s, these housed local officials. In its current rendition as a national monument the park serves respite from the press and mess of the city. Tourists of many countries and religions snap photos of friends and que up,to ride the swan boats. Others stroll quietly or stand leaning upon the marble water's edge railing. We find a deep shadowed pavilion porch away from the crowds to sit. Peace peace bliss.
Telema guides us in a lovely meditation through earth, water, fire and air to ether, and finally to toggle between sinking into peace and sending out light and love. Of course, we no sooner begin than suddenly our spot becomes a magnet for group after loud group of tourists. Good practice. Receive the sounds and smells along with the weight of being watched and talked about, and use that energy to layer on shields of protection, sentinals of perception, to surrender deeper and and deeper still until the dept becomes the vastness. Ahhhhhhh. There it is.
The bit of yoga I indulge with after the meditation reminds me that my body is being pushed. Hard. Thank goodness I know how to ameliorate the aches and pains I route out, until finally, that sought-for big physical siiiiiiiggggggghhhhh and the tightness melts away.
Back at the Inn, yet another sumptuous repast of a late lunch: panneer saag, roti, rice, a wonderfully light dish of peas & tiny carrots, and a potatoe-type root with toasty crust and warming dust of spice. Mr. B proudly presents today's sweet treat of thin, flat wafers kind of cookie, tastes of sesame and pistachios or almonds, cinnamon.
The afternoon is open, and I've been toying with returning to the cave, the site of yesterday's emense experience. Or would it be better to use meditation to recall and dwell in that space? I decide to return.
Today it's not so much a shock as a recognition, "oh, nice, you're back." Taking my time, now, time, full zikr of 500, then diminishing zikr to the culmination of "Hu, Hu, Hu." taking time to sit eith the epace. Then I am lead to Contemplation of the heart. the physical heart, poignant with longing, black with sorrow, want, desire; the siir, right heart, awash with rolling waves of compassion, warm and comforting, like bein wrapped in the Mother's arms; the qadr, center, solid and fully open, open, open. Again those waves, this time waves of opening outward. Rahim. Unfettered time here is a blessing.
It's a long walk back to the Havali, carrying the love back to the marketplace, the tapestry of humanity, the world.
We've four hours 'till boarding and most of us chose to lounge in the courtyard, with brief forays to local shops for a last minute purchase of local cloth, samosas for a light dinner, and a stock-pile of biscuits and bananas in case the promised 'breakfast' doesn't make it to 3rd class C. Wonder of wonders, "lo! and behold!," what do we find but a Baskin Robbins! World Class Chocolate: dark chocolate with pockets of white mouse. :-)
Unable to gain 1st class passage to Rishikesh (the tour companies snatch up the entire lot as soon as it's released), we're apprehensive about this leg of our journey. It turns out not so bad, albeit a bit cramped with sleeping berths stacked 3 to a side, six to an alcove, and about 2 feet of floor space down the middle. The luggage is more of a challenge than our last sleeping trains, where four of us shared the same amount of space, and with two layers of berths, we could at least sit up in bed for that ride. Not so tonight. Once you're 'in,' you're in! Tonight's is a mail train, so it stops at every town and hamlet, passengers debark and board throuout the night, and not quietly. We're perplexed as to how people know their station since the attendants fail to announce approaching towns and most platforms are devoid of any kind of signs. Our strategy is to set phone alarms for ten minutes before scheduled arrival, and since most trains, as every thing in India, are late, should have enough time to gather our growing piles of bags and head out. Tonight It's not a problem at all, since ours is the last stop of the line. Good thing, 'cause we arrive a half hour early, so, using the Arrivals chart, we would have missed it!
Luckily for those of us who struggle to squat, all our trains so far have offered a seated toilet across the aisle from the one marked 'Indian style.' So armed with packets of sterile swipes, my own TP and wipes, 's not so bad.
Breakfast turns out to be, for 50 rupees ( about a dollar), 2 fried disks, a worrisome fluorescent pink mash called 'vegetable pancakes,' and a piece of warm damp toast with a whisper of butter. Hurrah for the miracle of the biscuits and bananas! Thankfully, one of the hawkers who walk end to end and back again brings real chai - the others carry a metal spigotted milk-cans dispensing a hot milk, watery, too sugary mixture which they use for both Nescafé or wimpy tea bag tea in paper cups. Yuck. Gone are the days when real chai could be had in the stations as well as on the trains. Served in rough pottery cups, once drained, the clay vessels wer tossed right out onto the track, recycled as ballast. Ah, nostalgia.
On to Rishikesh. After a night of restless sleep disturbed by roudy groups moving on and off the train, I'm looking forward to a quieter couple of days, strolls along the river, yogi meditations and lectures and perhaps a taste of other styles of practice.
Built in 864, the palace-like structure that holds the glitz is phenomenal in its own right. Grand, solidly marching pillars frame Hindu and Mogul-style arches, and herein, the rich colors haven't been washed or wind-sand-blasted away as they have in other treasures we've explored. The tables are turned on us at this heritage site as we are made the object of photomania by a group of middle-eastern men. How strange it feels, then silly.
Another three-wheeler ride to Anasagar lake with its water-front promenade and grand pavilions, all of marble. In the 1600s, these housed local officials. In its current rendition as a national monument the park serves respite from the press and mess of the city. Tourists of many countries and religions snap photos of friends and que up,to ride the swan boats. Others stroll quietly or stand leaning upon the marble water's edge railing. We find a deep shadowed pavilion porch away from the crowds to sit. Peace peace bliss.
Telema guides us in a lovely meditation through earth, water, fire and air to ether, and finally to toggle between sinking into peace and sending out light and love. Of course, we no sooner begin than suddenly our spot becomes a magnet for group after loud group of tourists. Good practice. Receive the sounds and smells along with the weight of being watched and talked about, and use that energy to layer on shields of protection, sentinals of perception, to surrender deeper and and deeper still until the dept becomes the vastness. Ahhhhhhh. There it is.
The bit of yoga I indulge with after the meditation reminds me that my body is being pushed. Hard. Thank goodness I know how to ameliorate the aches and pains I route out, until finally, that sought-for big physical siiiiiiiggggggghhhhh and the tightness melts away.
Back at the Inn, yet another sumptuous repast of a late lunch: panneer saag, roti, rice, a wonderfully light dish of peas & tiny carrots, and a potatoe-type root with toasty crust and warming dust of spice. Mr. B proudly presents today's sweet treat of thin, flat wafers kind of cookie, tastes of sesame and pistachios or almonds, cinnamon.
The afternoon is open, and I've been toying with returning to the cave, the site of yesterday's emense experience. Or would it be better to use meditation to recall and dwell in that space? I decide to return.
Today it's not so much a shock as a recognition, "oh, nice, you're back." Taking my time, now, time, full zikr of 500, then diminishing zikr to the culmination of "Hu, Hu, Hu." taking time to sit eith the epace. Then I am lead to Contemplation of the heart. the physical heart, poignant with longing, black with sorrow, want, desire; the siir, right heart, awash with rolling waves of compassion, warm and comforting, like bein wrapped in the Mother's arms; the qadr, center, solid and fully open, open, open. Again those waves, this time waves of opening outward. Rahim. Unfettered time here is a blessing.
It's a long walk back to the Havali, carrying the love back to the marketplace, the tapestry of humanity, the world.
We've four hours 'till boarding and most of us chose to lounge in the courtyard, with brief forays to local shops for a last minute purchase of local cloth, samosas for a light dinner, and a stock-pile of biscuits and bananas in case the promised 'breakfast' doesn't make it to 3rd class C. Wonder of wonders, "lo! and behold!," what do we find but a Baskin Robbins! World Class Chocolate: dark chocolate with pockets of white mouse. :-)
Unable to gain 1st class passage to Rishikesh (the tour companies snatch up the entire lot as soon as it's released), we're apprehensive about this leg of our journey. It turns out not so bad, albeit a bit cramped with sleeping berths stacked 3 to a side, six to an alcove, and about 2 feet of floor space down the middle. The luggage is more of a challenge than our last sleeping trains, where four of us shared the same amount of space, and with two layers of berths, we could at least sit up in bed for that ride. Not so tonight. Once you're 'in,' you're in! Tonight's is a mail train, so it stops at every town and hamlet, passengers debark and board throuout the night, and not quietly. We're perplexed as to how people know their station since the attendants fail to announce approaching towns and most platforms are devoid of any kind of signs. Our strategy is to set phone alarms for ten minutes before scheduled arrival, and since most trains, as every thing in India, are late, should have enough time to gather our growing piles of bags and head out. Tonight It's not a problem at all, since ours is the last stop of the line. Good thing, 'cause we arrive a half hour early, so, using the Arrivals chart, we would have missed it!
Luckily for those of us who struggle to squat, all our trains so far have offered a seated toilet across the aisle from the one marked 'Indian style.' So armed with packets of sterile swipes, my own TP and wipes, 's not so bad.
Breakfast turns out to be, for 50 rupees ( about a dollar), 2 fried disks, a worrisome fluorescent pink mash called 'vegetable pancakes,' and a piece of warm damp toast with a whisper of butter. Hurrah for the miracle of the biscuits and bananas! Thankfully, one of the hawkers who walk end to end and back again brings real chai - the others carry a metal spigotted milk-cans dispensing a hot milk, watery, too sugary mixture which they use for both Nescafé or wimpy tea bag tea in paper cups. Yuck. Gone are the days when real chai could be had in the stations as well as on the trains. Served in rough pottery cups, once drained, the clay vessels wer tossed right out onto the track, recycled as ballast. Ah, nostalgia.
On to Rishikesh. After a night of restless sleep disturbed by roudy groups moving on and off the train, I'm looking forward to a quieter couple of days, strolls along the river, yogi meditations and lectures and perhaps a taste of other styles of practice.
Monday 23 January 2012 Gentle Repose
In the witching hours just after midnight, the Ajmer train station is as bustling as any other time we've been through one. Our host, Mr Bhargato, is from the very start warm and welcoming, helpful, meeting our every request and inquiry with a head wobbling "don't worry, we will take care of it." Transport from the station is an old beat-up bus half the size of those we'd filled in Delhi. Ha,ha, why would I bother to specify 'beat-up?,' they all are! Three slips-of-men lug our bags along side, push and pull heavy roller bags and 40 & 60 pound backpacks straight up to the roof. "Don't worry, I am strong Indian boy!"
It goes like this. The ground man hefts the bag to his head, then presses it up to locked elbows. The roof man reaches down over the edge, way down, and does a pull-up the rest of the way. We watch, amazed. I'm glad mine is one of the first taken, so it ends up on the bottom layer - the last bags up wobble precariously. One of the porters perches on the bottom step, hanging out of the open bus door, to keep watch for bounce-offs for the five minutes ride to the Inn.
The Havali Heritage Inn is a family mansion molded into a BnB by the Mr.'s Bhargato, who were born within these walls. As was their father, and his father before him and his father before him, his father having built the original first floor of a dozen rooms surrounding two open air courtyards ringed by veranda walkways dripping with bogenvalea. Alcoves in these inner-outer walls frame intaglio Hindu idols of various aspects of God. A waist-high fountain plays in the first courtyard across from the glass roomed family shrine of Krishna. Wicker chairs encircle the inner garden, inviting repose.
Sadly, this may be the end of the line - their two families grew here, and none have shown interest in keeping on. With their sons married and moved away, the brothers added a second story on the back section. They still live in a few rooms on the first floor, and play host to guests from around the world, including foreign dignitaries and India's own statesmen. Gandhi stayed here whenever he was in Ajmer, and one of our rooms houses the couch upon which their father sat for a chat with the martyr.
When next I come to India, I'll stay here at least a week. It feels like home - especially the home-cooked meals! Ooooo, the banquets they prepare - the best food we've had so far! I am beginning to feel a rhythm to the days, sleeping soundly, eating scrumptuously, walking miles of hilly streets.
Monday morning begins with a full Inn breakfast, then scooter-shaws to a delightful introduction to the Sufi Saints School - a non-profit, totally donation-supported humanitarean miracle. Children ages 3-1/2 thru 10 from the poorest of the poor are given free quality education. They giggle and wiggle as we pass from room to room, radiating the love and joy of a community of every religious and political presence of India come together with the common cause of learning. The over-riding message of the school is Love, Harmony, universal peace and brotherhood. By bringing children from various religions and beliefs together, and teaching them under one roof, the school promotes the message of world peace and co-existence.
No child is left behind. All who inquire are accepted. These are probably the very first generation of their families to ever be educated. They are today's hope for tomorrow's India. Just $30 provides one child's education, uniforms, materials and a nutritious lunch for a year. From a start of 14 in 1993, the school now blossoms with 300 pairs of shining eyes. Here is a cause I will support into the future.
Moinudinn Chisti's cave is shocking, like a flame thrower to my 3rd eye and then my heart, too, glows a-fired. Everything else falls away into a sea of disorientation. I surrender to the deep, deep, basso profundo of energy. The furnace within throbs, I work to bring it down, down, down, absorbing each chakra, by chakra, to the root. Each plexus sobs with relief as it becomes attuned to the deep, broad, solid force. Then - zip! an express elevator to the crown and zoom! up beyond perception.
More and more pilgrims carry more and more languages into the low ceilinged tenXten windowless, airless space. Bodies press from every side, the air thickens, people are shouting. Intensity beyond explanation. Some of our number cannot bear the pressur, so we leave. My soul cries: "no! It's not enough! This was just a sip, a tease!"
Another flight of stairsteps farther up the hill, we pause to reflect at the tombs of the first Gudri Shah baba, then the second, Hazrat Nawab Kadim Hasan, and then Dr. Hazrat Dr. ZahurulnHassan Sharib, Gudri Shah Baba IV, author of many important Sufi books and a dear friend of our teacher. Here we sit again for a time, re-collecting.
The view from this height helps me regain perspective, a sense of being in the world again. It seems I can see the world from here - the whole world is comprised in this colorful market place below, this road which parallels the edge of a lake so large it could be a bay, these villages dotting the rimming hills.
Now it's a long trek through Magar Marketplace which seems to bustle no matter the hour. Shopers offer friendly smiles, merchants shout "Hello! Hello! Come into my shop"
Turning the corner towards the Daragh Sharif, the atmosphere shifts to... less polite, less allowing of our presence. Up a gently winding hill framed by open sewers running we climb, the shops smaller and meaner with each turn. Passers-bye busily going about their evening shopping stare at us interlopers, offer no smiles.
Typical rose sellers signal the shrine is approaching. This is the Daragh of Khwaja Moinuddin Chisti, a sufi saint and root of the sisila (heritage) of the Chisti International Sufi Order. Moiniddin arrived in India from Persia in the 1192CE, and died here in 1236. For Muslims of India, this site is a close second to haaj, Mecca. For sufis it is nirvana. Knowing security is tight here, with too frequent threats and occassional bombings by fundamentalists, we've come carrying nothing. So we can simply deposited our shoes and salem malecuemm past layers of Kurta and cap clothed guards.
Another series of courtyards separated by short steps offer fanciful plates of rose petals, strings of blossoms, a rainbow of plastic tasbih. The main courtyard is filled with the faithful of every continent. Garb of a plethora of countries paints a rainbow of a different sort. Conscripted beggars drag towards us, eyes pleading. Dargah Wallas, each claiming to be the direct descendent of the Profit, Saint, or some prominent Imam, offer "sign my book, sign my book." For a small donation my name could be recorded at the Daragh of the founder of the way which I follow.
Circumambulating we come upon a platform set back from the sea and we sit, waiting for evening prayers to be accomplished, the crowds to lighten, waiting for our time to go in. It's surprisingly quiet. Suddenly, banging drums bring the crowds to their feet as one body to stand facing the tomb. Hundreds of swooping birds similar to our barn swallows gather in a tremendous canopy tree on the corner of the courtyard, their chirping cries picatto to the yearning harmonies of man. The sky has shifted to that marvelous deep blue of sun's last hour of light.
Evening prayers completed, the birds as one body fly away.
We enter.
The pressing crush of bodies moves as one, clockwise around the crypt. Huddled by the silver rail, our little group is further joined when Dargah Wallas throw a family-size prayer shawl over our collective heads. We remain for a time, bowed in reverence, genuflected in awe. Lightyears later we are brought forth, rose petals pressed to our palms, to eat of the sweetness of His love. I am numb to the in sensibilities of the walk back home.
The whole troup congregates back at the Inn as dusk creeps into the inner courtyard and the bogenvaleas become frilly silhouettes against evenings' last light. The fire pit is lighted and the banquet begins. Hmmmmmmmmm yumba! India's version of BBQ chicken, rice with peas, and vegetable curry punctuated by yogurt with fruit. Ahhh, the grand finale of sweet, light, gulag juman balls, like lightweight krullers briefly soaked in syrup.
Sleep is sweet, still, complete.
It goes like this. The ground man hefts the bag to his head, then presses it up to locked elbows. The roof man reaches down over the edge, way down, and does a pull-up the rest of the way. We watch, amazed. I'm glad mine is one of the first taken, so it ends up on the bottom layer - the last bags up wobble precariously. One of the porters perches on the bottom step, hanging out of the open bus door, to keep watch for bounce-offs for the five minutes ride to the Inn.
The Havali Heritage Inn is a family mansion molded into a BnB by the Mr.'s Bhargato, who were born within these walls. As was their father, and his father before him and his father before him, his father having built the original first floor of a dozen rooms surrounding two open air courtyards ringed by veranda walkways dripping with bogenvalea. Alcoves in these inner-outer walls frame intaglio Hindu idols of various aspects of God. A waist-high fountain plays in the first courtyard across from the glass roomed family shrine of Krishna. Wicker chairs encircle the inner garden, inviting repose.
Sadly, this may be the end of the line - their two families grew here, and none have shown interest in keeping on. With their sons married and moved away, the brothers added a second story on the back section. They still live in a few rooms on the first floor, and play host to guests from around the world, including foreign dignitaries and India's own statesmen. Gandhi stayed here whenever he was in Ajmer, and one of our rooms houses the couch upon which their father sat for a chat with the martyr.
When next I come to India, I'll stay here at least a week. It feels like home - especially the home-cooked meals! Ooooo, the banquets they prepare - the best food we've had so far! I am beginning to feel a rhythm to the days, sleeping soundly, eating scrumptuously, walking miles of hilly streets.
Monday morning begins with a full Inn breakfast, then scooter-shaws to a delightful introduction to the Sufi Saints School - a non-profit, totally donation-supported humanitarean miracle. Children ages 3-1/2 thru 10 from the poorest of the poor are given free quality education. They giggle and wiggle as we pass from room to room, radiating the love and joy of a community of every religious and political presence of India come together with the common cause of learning. The over-riding message of the school is Love, Harmony, universal peace and brotherhood. By bringing children from various religions and beliefs together, and teaching them under one roof, the school promotes the message of world peace and co-existence.
No child is left behind. All who inquire are accepted. These are probably the very first generation of their families to ever be educated. They are today's hope for tomorrow's India. Just $30 provides one child's education, uniforms, materials and a nutritious lunch for a year. From a start of 14 in 1993, the school now blossoms with 300 pairs of shining eyes. Here is a cause I will support into the future.
Moinudinn Chisti's cave is shocking, like a flame thrower to my 3rd eye and then my heart, too, glows a-fired. Everything else falls away into a sea of disorientation. I surrender to the deep, deep, basso profundo of energy. The furnace within throbs, I work to bring it down, down, down, absorbing each chakra, by chakra, to the root. Each plexus sobs with relief as it becomes attuned to the deep, broad, solid force. Then - zip! an express elevator to the crown and zoom! up beyond perception.
More and more pilgrims carry more and more languages into the low ceilinged tenXten windowless, airless space. Bodies press from every side, the air thickens, people are shouting. Intensity beyond explanation. Some of our number cannot bear the pressur, so we leave. My soul cries: "no! It's not enough! This was just a sip, a tease!"
Another flight of stairsteps farther up the hill, we pause to reflect at the tombs of the first Gudri Shah baba, then the second, Hazrat Nawab Kadim Hasan, and then Dr. Hazrat Dr. ZahurulnHassan Sharib, Gudri Shah Baba IV, author of many important Sufi books and a dear friend of our teacher. Here we sit again for a time, re-collecting.
The view from this height helps me regain perspective, a sense of being in the world again. It seems I can see the world from here - the whole world is comprised in this colorful market place below, this road which parallels the edge of a lake so large it could be a bay, these villages dotting the rimming hills.
Now it's a long trek through Magar Marketplace which seems to bustle no matter the hour. Shopers offer friendly smiles, merchants shout "Hello! Hello! Come into my shop"
Turning the corner towards the Daragh Sharif, the atmosphere shifts to... less polite, less allowing of our presence. Up a gently winding hill framed by open sewers running we climb, the shops smaller and meaner with each turn. Passers-bye busily going about their evening shopping stare at us interlopers, offer no smiles.
Typical rose sellers signal the shrine is approaching. This is the Daragh of Khwaja Moinuddin Chisti, a sufi saint and root of the sisila (heritage) of the Chisti International Sufi Order. Moiniddin arrived in India from Persia in the 1192CE, and died here in 1236. For Muslims of India, this site is a close second to haaj, Mecca. For sufis it is nirvana. Knowing security is tight here, with too frequent threats and occassional bombings by fundamentalists, we've come carrying nothing. So we can simply deposited our shoes and salem malecuemm past layers of Kurta and cap clothed guards.
Another series of courtyards separated by short steps offer fanciful plates of rose petals, strings of blossoms, a rainbow of plastic tasbih. The main courtyard is filled with the faithful of every continent. Garb of a plethora of countries paints a rainbow of a different sort. Conscripted beggars drag towards us, eyes pleading. Dargah Wallas, each claiming to be the direct descendent of the Profit, Saint, or some prominent Imam, offer "sign my book, sign my book." For a small donation my name could be recorded at the Daragh of the founder of the way which I follow.
Circumambulating we come upon a platform set back from the sea and we sit, waiting for evening prayers to be accomplished, the crowds to lighten, waiting for our time to go in. It's surprisingly quiet. Suddenly, banging drums bring the crowds to their feet as one body to stand facing the tomb. Hundreds of swooping birds similar to our barn swallows gather in a tremendous canopy tree on the corner of the courtyard, their chirping cries picatto to the yearning harmonies of man. The sky has shifted to that marvelous deep blue of sun's last hour of light.
Evening prayers completed, the birds as one body fly away.
We enter.
The pressing crush of bodies moves as one, clockwise around the crypt. Huddled by the silver rail, our little group is further joined when Dargah Wallas throw a family-size prayer shawl over our collective heads. We remain for a time, bowed in reverence, genuflected in awe. Lightyears later we are brought forth, rose petals pressed to our palms, to eat of the sweetness of His love. I am numb to the in sensibilities of the walk back home.
The whole troup congregates back at the Inn as dusk creeps into the inner courtyard and the bogenvaleas become frilly silhouettes against evenings' last light. The fire pit is lighted and the banquet begins. Hmmmmmmmmm yumba! India's version of BBQ chicken, rice with peas, and vegetable curry punctuated by yogurt with fruit. Ahhh, the grand finale of sweet, light, gulag juman balls, like lightweight krullers briefly soaked in syrup.
Sleep is sweet, still, complete.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Saturday and Sunday 21 & 22 January - Toggling from tourist to disciple
Saturday a tourist day: Taj Mahal and Agra fort, better suited to pictures than words. I'll post those after I'm home.
Sunday: Arrival at Fatehpur Sikri is a swim upstream thru a seaweed meadow of waving arms offering plastic trinkets and laser printed guide books. "Cielo, cielo. Bas!" "No, no, enough!" Inside, oh what a visual feast it must have been, when this most resplendent of Mogul cities was in its glory. Imagine the richness of blue tiled roofs and mosaic wainscoate reflecting piercing sunlight, intricate carvings of sandstone and jasper jali, grand pietra dura (semi-precious stones inlaid in marble).
Water connected every nook and cranny of this vast complex coursing under, around and thru each building in a contiguous flow. Narrow channels cut each room, the source of cooling; reflecting pools spaced between structures, the source of interior light; and specifically tuned fountains provided opportunities for private conversation, where no hidden spy ould overhear.
I admire the simple geometry of the Astronomer's Pavilion; the graceful detail of the Harem's Quarters; the cool of the Palace of Akbar's Hindu wife Jodhbai; and the way the Wind Tower, where ladies observed court through jali lace-screens, draws the eye up, up, up to the bluest of skies. There's an observation minaret and a Parchesi Court, where servant girls played the part of game pieces.
Back out we traverse aross the gauntlet of commerce again, thru a gargantuan carved redstone gate into Jami-Masjid - 84 colonaded rooms surrounding a footballfield center, open to the sky. Qawali musicians draw us towards the Darwgh of Salmi Chisti. His heart reaches across the marble courtyard, drawing me in, steadily absorbing, in, in, in to the void, the vastness of being. By the time I step across the threshold of the inner veranda I am lost. Circumambulating slowly thru the thickness of energy leads to complete surrender thru the portal to the tomb. I have no remembered realization of this inner circuit, of sprinkling the rose petals upon silk-draped tomb, of receiving the blessing, of backing out into the veranda once again. Finding my way to a cool corner, I sit in stillness, discover silence amongst a chattering throng, until called to join the others for tea, I reluctantly emerge back to a r tangible realm.
Heading back to our bus, the hawkers swoop and with our sensiblities wide open and raw, it is too much to bear. We form a circle and drawing our consciousnesses together, ground to the earth, reach heavenward, and open our hearts with detached compassion. The reception courtyard sinks to sweet silence around us. Ahhhhhh.
I write this from a 2nd class train sleeper berth to Ajmer, where tomorrow we will be privileged by audience with Pir Inam and blessed by the presence of Khwaja Moinuddin Chisti, founder of the Chishtiya order. His axium: dedication to protecting the poor; self discipline and personal prayer; zikr as a means of spiritual transformation; generosity; and tolerance and respect for religious differences.
P.S. There are no signs on the train platforms we pass, so we have a 'firedrill' of assembling to get off the train before we finally arrive, blissfully, at Agra. Our luggage is hauled to the roof-top carrier, we squeeze into a bus that looks too small to hold half our number, and gratefully tumble into bed at the beautiful Havell Heritage Inn
Sunday: Arrival at Fatehpur Sikri is a swim upstream thru a seaweed meadow of waving arms offering plastic trinkets and laser printed guide books. "Cielo, cielo. Bas!" "No, no, enough!" Inside, oh what a visual feast it must have been, when this most resplendent of Mogul cities was in its glory. Imagine the richness of blue tiled roofs and mosaic wainscoate reflecting piercing sunlight, intricate carvings of sandstone and jasper jali, grand pietra dura (semi-precious stones inlaid in marble).
Water connected every nook and cranny of this vast complex coursing under, around and thru each building in a contiguous flow. Narrow channels cut each room, the source of cooling; reflecting pools spaced between structures, the source of interior light; and specifically tuned fountains provided opportunities for private conversation, where no hidden spy ould overhear.
I admire the simple geometry of the Astronomer's Pavilion; the graceful detail of the Harem's Quarters; the cool of the Palace of Akbar's Hindu wife Jodhbai; and the way the Wind Tower, where ladies observed court through jali lace-screens, draws the eye up, up, up to the bluest of skies. There's an observation minaret and a Parchesi Court, where servant girls played the part of game pieces.
Back out we traverse aross the gauntlet of commerce again, thru a gargantuan carved redstone gate into Jami-Masjid - 84 colonaded rooms surrounding a footballfield center, open to the sky. Qawali musicians draw us towards the Darwgh of Salmi Chisti. His heart reaches across the marble courtyard, drawing me in, steadily absorbing, in, in, in to the void, the vastness of being. By the time I step across the threshold of the inner veranda I am lost. Circumambulating slowly thru the thickness of energy leads to complete surrender thru the portal to the tomb. I have no remembered realization of this inner circuit, of sprinkling the rose petals upon silk-draped tomb, of receiving the blessing, of backing out into the veranda once again. Finding my way to a cool corner, I sit in stillness, discover silence amongst a chattering throng, until called to join the others for tea, I reluctantly emerge back to a r tangible realm.
Heading back to our bus, the hawkers swoop and with our sensiblities wide open and raw, it is too much to bear. We form a circle and drawing our consciousnesses together, ground to the earth, reach heavenward, and open our hearts with detached compassion. The reception courtyard sinks to sweet silence around us. Ahhhhhh.
I write this from a 2nd class train sleeper berth to Ajmer, where tomorrow we will be privileged by audience with Pir Inam and blessed by the presence of Khwaja Moinuddin Chisti, founder of the Chishtiya order. His axium: dedication to protecting the poor; self discipline and personal prayer; zikr as a means of spiritual transformation; generosity; and tolerance and respect for religious differences.
P.S. There are no signs on the train platforms we pass, so we have a 'firedrill' of assembling to get off the train before we finally arrive, blissfully, at Agra. Our luggage is hauled to the roof-top carrier, we squeeze into a bus that looks too small to hold half our number, and gratefully tumble into bed at the beautiful Havell Heritage Inn
Saturday, January 21, 2012
Thursday 19 & Friday 20 January - Lose Your Self
There are many ways to lose yourself.
Certainly Delhi is not easy to navigate for newbies, although by the second day, it's beginning to make sense. A giant wheel of travel has been superimposed over a teaming crush of jumbled construction. Like Bejing, Delhi is held by ring roads, the fastest way to get from one side to the other. Unlike like Bejing, India has a reasonable subway system, but it doesn't underlie the ring roads of this web. Puzzling that the city planners of neither city took this opportunity of mass contruction to maximize underground mass transit.. So as relative prosperity seaps in, it's cars, cars, cars. Hence Delhi's descriptive smog. Not as palpable as Bejing, but definitely a pervading presence. Reeks havock on the sinuses.
The city pie is then cut into wedges called 'blocks' marked by roads radiating from the center like the spokes of a wheel. Hailing a rickshaw, tell the driver "K block, 3rd ring," and if you know the name of a spoke road, that helps. But don't be surprised if it takes 3 or 4 attempts until you can be deposited at your destination. This is not London and most drivers, even the busses we hired, don't know their own city. They don't know English, or feign they don't, the meters never work, and "no change, no change." Rickshaws here are 3 wheeled motorscooters carrying the driver and a back seat sized for 2. A precarious tubular frame is fitted with a vinyl roof, back and right side, or more likely, draped with whatever the driver could get his hands on - yellowed plastic, worn carpets, discarded fabrics. Some are fancifully decorated with plastic or silk flowers, bright sticker pictures streamers or painted trims. The left side has no door or window, so it's a chilly and damp ride. Add the dusty dry wind and you'll soon learn to dress for the ride, esp a scarf to cover mouth and nose. And learn to trust Allah, for it's a wild weaving amongst cars, buses, motorbikes and bicycles.
Yes bicycles. Astounding to see bicycles piled 4 feet high and as much as 6 feet wide with bales of dry goods, sacks of concrete, bags of rice, bins of vegetables. Precariously balanced, they slowly pedal along as Mad Max traffic zooms by.
Small change is an issue - there isn't any. Banks will not cash American Express traveler's checks, the best solution for money exchange (at least this month) seems to be: open a Citibank account in the states and bring a debit card. Even with advance warning that you'll be in India for an extended visit, one person's bank froze her card after $500, worried her card had been stolen. So in addition to alerting your bank of where you are going and for how long, leave photocopies of your card with someone back home so they can get it reactivated for you.
Although the Cambio does take the travelers checks, like the banks, he will not give anything lower than 100, and 100s only with terse insistence. He returns the text book response: " India does not have anything smaller, only 500!" Persevere, because the problem is, most things you want throughout the day, like, taxis, drinking water, snacks and that lovely bracelet, are 10, 20 or 30R. A dollar is about 50R. So while "everything is cheap," good luck having a low enough paper and coin, 'cause, "no change, no change!" So the tendency is to do a quick calculation and think, it's only a dollar extra, I'll just pay 100." The concept of bargains is quickly lost, but then it is only a dollar or two extra to a person for whom that can mean the difference between food on the table tonight or sleeping with an empty belly.
The wheel is a fitting analogy for India. Swimming through the marketplaces of Nizamiddin, you see starkly the wheel of life. What we from the states would define as 'slum,' is a thriving neighborhood of mingled Muslim, Hindu & Christian living side by side. It is primarily Muslim, but there, tucked under that tree, see a tiny Hindu shrine, resplendent with requisite brilliant fabrics and metallic glitz. A few of us engage a private tour and are rewarded by access to inner windings of streets so narrow you can stand in the center and reach out to touch the house on either side of streets. For four hours we traverse tangled streets lined with sellers of produce, jewelry, fabrics, religious paraphernalia and foodcarts. Just steps from starving beggars a chicken seller decapitates, defoots and defeathers a purchase with agility and ease. In the time it takes for one of us to proclaim to the others, the deed is done. A waiting urchin runs with the feet around corner to another vendor selling just that. In the midst of the deep shadows of huddled buildings, the ever present smog, and unusually pervasive smog, weaves a tapestry of rich and royal hue, an ever shifting vision of a never ending view. Shawls and headscarves, fluorescent light wall clocks and prayer alarms with lenticular panoramas of a favorite mosque or saint, all together light up this cavernous labarynth.
Faces float to the surface of awareness, faces of the newly born bobbing next to faces of despair, of lingering diseases of death, and of hope. Always hope. Western sensibilities at first numbed by the filth, can I see past that veneer? If not, then I am truly lost. Lost to my own story.
Can I put my book on the shelf and watch myself turn blank pages that fill with fantastic script with every step, every breath. With each breath, a cacophony of smells: garlic and frying, spices and ofal, sickly sweet smell of putrification and of roses. Yes roses. Each breath, like Naked Lunch, shatters all paradigms, all frames of reference. As Hazrat Inayat Kahn suggested, "Shatter your ideas upon the rock of truth!"
This is Nizamidden: buzzing, swarming, flowing, heartful and woeful, simple and intricate, unassuming and imposing, trail of tears and trails of hope, the crush, the marketplace of stalls: meat hanging, deep fried chicken, grapes, melons, and oranges and lemons, large green pods like oversized peas, hanging hot peppers, chicken feet, astonishingly white cauliflowers, string beans and radishes, radicchio(!) Oh, and goats with sweaters, better dressed than some of the children.
Goats wearing sweaters? Yes, and one outfitted with a worn and patched designer blazer. It's important to keep your goat fashionable attired so that her energy goes to making milk rather than staying warm.
Embroidered head coverings, Arabic writings, hammered brass, and the sweet smell of roses. As the Darragh nears, increasingly, that sweet smell of roses. Purchase a paper cone of petals or a strand of perfect blooms, how, how, how is it they smell so sweet in the midst of all this? Perhaps the nose would not be suprised except for the contrast.
The darraghs. The real reason for my trip. Stepping across the thresshold of the compound which surrounds the tomb of Hazrat Inayat Kahn: through the looking glass, gladly. Even just inside, just in the vestibule where shoes are shed, the energy is at once eternal and intimate, quieting and catalizing. Through the pleasant garden, an oasis in the midst of living strife, and up a flight of stairs to the terrace and the shrine, drawn closer to the love with each unfaltering step. Circumambulating, then kneeling at his feet, with head pressed to cold marble, a massive jolt of energy rocks me, life force unfathominablek, all prevading love, nearly knocks me back on my heals and I am frozen in time and eternity for I don't know how long. As my awareness again registers the physicality of the others, I reluctantly withdraw to a secluded corner to meditate. Heart rush. Threads of truth. Awe some.
Later, around the corner at the tomb of Pir Vilayat, the feeling is mixed of sternness and that signature impish humor. "Get busy!" "And don't forget to laugh!" Tears this time of longing, his departure still keen. We meditate here on realizing that we are beings of light. Next the Darragh (tomb) of Nizamuddin Auliya is a mob scene, it is Thursday when hoards of the faithful come to begin their sabbath at sundown. Once again, that sense of losing the self to the sea of humanity, sensory overload, the flowers and fabrics, singing and praying, intensity and roses, always the roses.
Friday's return afforded us some peaceful time to sit with the quiet, persistant glow of the energy of this most revered saint. The men circumambulate inside the tomb, while women are relegated to pray on the porch. I'm aware of a brief grip of resentment now, and again later as we mere women are excluded from the throng who complete ablutions and enter the mosque for evening prayers. God, I think, would not be pleased by this fraternal snub. Despite the slight, the energy of this amazing man reaches beyond the jali wall, and we float in a sea of compassion. (Jali is intricate lattice work cut into thin slabs of stone, sometimes semi precious stones such as the alabaster at the Taj Mahal - the screens behind which women are hidden from view - to pray, to observe, and in court, to gather gossip) Nizamuddin Auliya is revered especially for helping the poor. Each day, the faithful brought gifts of abundant wealth to lay at his feet. By evening, he distributed every bit to the throngs of needy.
Trust, Allah will provide. Tomorrow the coffers will be once again filled.
The evening, the end of this most fullsome of days, brings us back to the shrine of Hazrat Inayat Kahn for a spell of Qawali - rhythmic tablas, woeful harmoniums and the rich cantilevered overlays of men's voices singing ecstasy.
There are many ways to be lost.
Certainly Delhi is not easy to navigate for newbies, although by the second day, it's beginning to make sense. A giant wheel of travel has been superimposed over a teaming crush of jumbled construction. Like Bejing, Delhi is held by ring roads, the fastest way to get from one side to the other. Unlike like Bejing, India has a reasonable subway system, but it doesn't underlie the ring roads of this web. Puzzling that the city planners of neither city took this opportunity of mass contruction to maximize underground mass transit.. So as relative prosperity seaps in, it's cars, cars, cars. Hence Delhi's descriptive smog. Not as palpable as Bejing, but definitely a pervading presence. Reeks havock on the sinuses.
The city pie is then cut into wedges called 'blocks' marked by roads radiating from the center like the spokes of a wheel. Hailing a rickshaw, tell the driver "K block, 3rd ring," and if you know the name of a spoke road, that helps. But don't be surprised if it takes 3 or 4 attempts until you can be deposited at your destination. This is not London and most drivers, even the busses we hired, don't know their own city. They don't know English, or feign they don't, the meters never work, and "no change, no change." Rickshaws here are 3 wheeled motorscooters carrying the driver and a back seat sized for 2. A precarious tubular frame is fitted with a vinyl roof, back and right side, or more likely, draped with whatever the driver could get his hands on - yellowed plastic, worn carpets, discarded fabrics. Some are fancifully decorated with plastic or silk flowers, bright sticker pictures streamers or painted trims. The left side has no door or window, so it's a chilly and damp ride. Add the dusty dry wind and you'll soon learn to dress for the ride, esp a scarf to cover mouth and nose. And learn to trust Allah, for it's a wild weaving amongst cars, buses, motorbikes and bicycles.
Yes bicycles. Astounding to see bicycles piled 4 feet high and as much as 6 feet wide with bales of dry goods, sacks of concrete, bags of rice, bins of vegetables. Precariously balanced, they slowly pedal along as Mad Max traffic zooms by.
Small change is an issue - there isn't any. Banks will not cash American Express traveler's checks, the best solution for money exchange (at least this month) seems to be: open a Citibank account in the states and bring a debit card. Even with advance warning that you'll be in India for an extended visit, one person's bank froze her card after $500, worried her card had been stolen. So in addition to alerting your bank of where you are going and for how long, leave photocopies of your card with someone back home so they can get it reactivated for you.
Although the Cambio does take the travelers checks, like the banks, he will not give anything lower than 100, and 100s only with terse insistence. He returns the text book response: " India does not have anything smaller, only 500!" Persevere, because the problem is, most things you want throughout the day, like, taxis, drinking water, snacks and that lovely bracelet, are 10, 20 or 30R. A dollar is about 50R. So while "everything is cheap," good luck having a low enough paper and coin, 'cause, "no change, no change!" So the tendency is to do a quick calculation and think, it's only a dollar extra, I'll just pay 100." The concept of bargains is quickly lost, but then it is only a dollar or two extra to a person for whom that can mean the difference between food on the table tonight or sleeping with an empty belly.
The wheel is a fitting analogy for India. Swimming through the marketplaces of Nizamiddin, you see starkly the wheel of life. What we from the states would define as 'slum,' is a thriving neighborhood of mingled Muslim, Hindu & Christian living side by side. It is primarily Muslim, but there, tucked under that tree, see a tiny Hindu shrine, resplendent with requisite brilliant fabrics and metallic glitz. A few of us engage a private tour and are rewarded by access to inner windings of streets so narrow you can stand in the center and reach out to touch the house on either side of streets. For four hours we traverse tangled streets lined with sellers of produce, jewelry, fabrics, religious paraphernalia and foodcarts. Just steps from starving beggars a chicken seller decapitates, defoots and defeathers a purchase with agility and ease. In the time it takes for one of us to proclaim to the others, the deed is done. A waiting urchin runs with the feet around corner to another vendor selling just that. In the midst of the deep shadows of huddled buildings, the ever present smog, and unusually pervasive smog, weaves a tapestry of rich and royal hue, an ever shifting vision of a never ending view. Shawls and headscarves, fluorescent light wall clocks and prayer alarms with lenticular panoramas of a favorite mosque or saint, all together light up this cavernous labarynth.
Faces float to the surface of awareness, faces of the newly born bobbing next to faces of despair, of lingering diseases of death, and of hope. Always hope. Western sensibilities at first numbed by the filth, can I see past that veneer? If not, then I am truly lost. Lost to my own story.
Can I put my book on the shelf and watch myself turn blank pages that fill with fantastic script with every step, every breath. With each breath, a cacophony of smells: garlic and frying, spices and ofal, sickly sweet smell of putrification and of roses. Yes roses. Each breath, like Naked Lunch, shatters all paradigms, all frames of reference. As Hazrat Inayat Kahn suggested, "Shatter your ideas upon the rock of truth!"
This is Nizamidden: buzzing, swarming, flowing, heartful and woeful, simple and intricate, unassuming and imposing, trail of tears and trails of hope, the crush, the marketplace of stalls: meat hanging, deep fried chicken, grapes, melons, and oranges and lemons, large green pods like oversized peas, hanging hot peppers, chicken feet, astonishingly white cauliflowers, string beans and radishes, radicchio(!) Oh, and goats with sweaters, better dressed than some of the children.
Goats wearing sweaters? Yes, and one outfitted with a worn and patched designer blazer. It's important to keep your goat fashionable attired so that her energy goes to making milk rather than staying warm.
Embroidered head coverings, Arabic writings, hammered brass, and the sweet smell of roses. As the Darragh nears, increasingly, that sweet smell of roses. Purchase a paper cone of petals or a strand of perfect blooms, how, how, how is it they smell so sweet in the midst of all this? Perhaps the nose would not be suprised except for the contrast.
The darraghs. The real reason for my trip. Stepping across the thresshold of the compound which surrounds the tomb of Hazrat Inayat Kahn: through the looking glass, gladly. Even just inside, just in the vestibule where shoes are shed, the energy is at once eternal and intimate, quieting and catalizing. Through the pleasant garden, an oasis in the midst of living strife, and up a flight of stairs to the terrace and the shrine, drawn closer to the love with each unfaltering step. Circumambulating, then kneeling at his feet, with head pressed to cold marble, a massive jolt of energy rocks me, life force unfathominablek, all prevading love, nearly knocks me back on my heals and I am frozen in time and eternity for I don't know how long. As my awareness again registers the physicality of the others, I reluctantly withdraw to a secluded corner to meditate. Heart rush. Threads of truth. Awe some.
Later, around the corner at the tomb of Pir Vilayat, the feeling is mixed of sternness and that signature impish humor. "Get busy!" "And don't forget to laugh!" Tears this time of longing, his departure still keen. We meditate here on realizing that we are beings of light. Next the Darragh (tomb) of Nizamuddin Auliya is a mob scene, it is Thursday when hoards of the faithful come to begin their sabbath at sundown. Once again, that sense of losing the self to the sea of humanity, sensory overload, the flowers and fabrics, singing and praying, intensity and roses, always the roses.
Friday's return afforded us some peaceful time to sit with the quiet, persistant glow of the energy of this most revered saint. The men circumambulate inside the tomb, while women are relegated to pray on the porch. I'm aware of a brief grip of resentment now, and again later as we mere women are excluded from the throng who complete ablutions and enter the mosque for evening prayers. God, I think, would not be pleased by this fraternal snub. Despite the slight, the energy of this amazing man reaches beyond the jali wall, and we float in a sea of compassion. (Jali is intricate lattice work cut into thin slabs of stone, sometimes semi precious stones such as the alabaster at the Taj Mahal - the screens behind which women are hidden from view - to pray, to observe, and in court, to gather gossip) Nizamuddin Auliya is revered especially for helping the poor. Each day, the faithful brought gifts of abundant wealth to lay at his feet. By evening, he distributed every bit to the throngs of needy.
Trust, Allah will provide. Tomorrow the coffers will be once again filled.
The evening, the end of this most fullsome of days, brings us back to the shrine of Hazrat Inayat Kahn for a spell of Qawali - rhythmic tablas, woeful harmoniums and the rich cantilevered overlays of men's voices singing ecstasy.
There are many ways to be lost.
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