My friend’s daughter Jordi won the opportunity to carry (and purchase at ~$500) the Olympic torch as it makes its way across Canada. I have to say, it was kind of exciting!
Couple in Toronto spends 3 months producing this incredible spectacle and raise funds for Sick Kids Hospital. Amusement parks cry in envy.
165 Benjamin Boake Trail
In the theme of things Indian, I couldn’t resist posting this hilarious rendition of a popular Xmas carol….
August 13 cont.
Dasaswamedh Ghat, Varanasi
Our lively bicycle rickshaw ride came to an end at the Dasaswamedh Ghat, the grandest steps down to the Ganges; “Ganga” as it’s called in India. The ghat was occupied by sadhus (holy men) in various stages of undress, body paint and emaciation; little girls charming visitors into purchasing their little hand-formed butter candles adorned with bright orange marigolds; freshly-shaved pilgrims; sellers of Hindu religious trinkets; cows and tourists. Lots and lots of tourists. To paraphrase a quote from the October 2008 Departures Magazine, Varanasi swarms with tourists more than it does with actual pilgrims and citizens.
Our guide, Devesh, pointed out the water line demarcating the extent to which the Ganga normally swells during the monsoon. In a normal season we should have been standing under water; businesses along the river are used to moving out while the Ganges moves in for a few weeks. But given that the Ganga records human fecal counts 3000 times the safe limit not to mention harbours countless other unsanitary nasties, I was quite happy to be on dry land.
Devesh explained to Josh, Aaron and me that people travel from all over India to Varanasi for yatra, a Ganges pilgrimage. These pilgrims believe that the river is the incarnation of the Goddes Ganga who flows down from its Himalayan source on the strands of Shiva’s hair. By bathing in the Ganga, or Ganges (the “eez” comes from a suffix given in Hindu as a sign of respect – Devesh hence forward became “Devesh-ji”), Hindus believe they are cleansed of Karma – the measurement of deeds of previous and present lives – and prepared for death. This in turn leads to rebirth and hopefully a better life.
I asked Devesh-ji if he had bathed in the Ganga. “Once,” he said, “and I got sick.” I didn’t probe the nature of his ailments, but I sensed he was unhappy by it and perhaps a bit envious of those who ingested and bathed in its waters with impunity… if you disregard the infinite parasites and other ills they no doubt suffer on a constant basis, Ganges or not.
There are many old people in Varanasi who carefully navigate the steep and treacherously slippery back alleyways barefoot. They believe that anyone who dies on the banks of the Ganga achieves moksha, deliverance from the cycle of reincarnation. This explains why dead bodies receive one final dip before cremation.
I asked Devesh when Hinduism began. He answers that no one really knows.
We each bought a butter candle from a girl who flirted persistently with Josh and Aaron and walked down to our boat. Our boatman’s oars peacefully swept 
through the obliging river as we glided slowly toward the Manikarnika cremation ghat. Devesh-ji asked us to lower our cameras, out of respect for the mourners.
The orange flames of the pyres stood out starkly from the concrete steps. The heat of the crematorium pressed against my face, but I was amazed that there was no noticeable smell. Stacks of wood towered over the throngs of workers, mourners, cows and dogs who moved deliberately among blackened ashes strewn with the tattered yellow and orange remains of discarded shrouds. 
On the steps bodies wrapped in saffron patiently waited for family members to carry them down to the river for one final immersion. Devesh pointed out an older man with a shaved head who had a white scarf wrapped around his privates – the eldest son of the deceased. He explained that the two main crematoria run 24 hours a day, every day of the year, and that the caste who manages this operation has become quite wealthy selling wood, sandalwood dusts, shrouds and other cremation accoutrements. We sat in quiet contemplation as the sky turned indigo with dusk.
On our return to the main ghat we lit our marigold butter candles and released them into the Ganga. Aaron’s fell apart as soon as it hit the water, a sign that he should stick to Buddhism.
By now the Dasaswamedh Ghat was buzzing with people preparing for the daily aarti ritual where Hindu priests pay homage to the Ganga in an elaborately-choreographed ceremony [Mariellen Ward wrote an excellent article on the Varanasi experience.] Devesh ensconced us on stairs above a raised platform next to a cow pen. We were soon surrounded by a group of chattering young Japanese ladies who jockeyed with us for precious bum space. I drank in the scene of hundreds of people and many cows milling about, extended families wedging themselves into narrow seated groups, the loudspeakers broadcasting tabla drums and monotone singing. The tension and emotion palpably mounted as boats filled with tourists and pilgrims crowded into each other at the base of the landing, forming a nautical chain 12 boats deep in places. At the centre of the crowd were seven priest stands – one for each day of the week – and while the organizer fretted with the priests’ diyas (large brass candlesticks), tourists peppered the night with camera flashes. The sense of festivity and anticipation increased as more people streamed into the crowd, Westerners in their sober tech-wear colours amidst the rainbow of Indian saris. The slight breeze did nothing to stem the sweat trickling down my brow.
The priests ascended their posts. The air filled with the sounds of accordion, tabla and chanting. The priests were quite young and a couple of them, with their short hair, glasses and seeming uncertainty with the lyrics, looked like they were better suited for a university campus than leading a Hindu service. I was captivated by one priest with long hair and incredible bone structure and watched intently as he swung his diya with purpose, spelling “Om” with his arms and chanting the prayers majestically. I decided to get closer.
Josh and I descended in the crowd and sat amongst the pilgrims. The older gentleman next to me was very friendly and encouraged us to take lots of photos. I was surprised at the ceremony’s informality – it was perfectly acceptable to move around, chat with your neighbour, take photos – and how little the congregation was directly involved in the ritual. Suddenly, the crowd burst into a flury of hand flourishes. They clapped, namaste’ed and raised their arms. For a fleeting moment it was pure electricity. The priests gathered at the central platform to sing the Broadway finale, then distributed blessed flowers to their devotees like celebrities dispensing autographs.
We ascended the steps – tourists, locals and pilgrims criss-crossing each others’ paths. I was surprised to discover that our bicycle rickshaw drivers had been waiting patiently for us. We had a marvelous ride back to the Surya hotel. The crowd was happy and energized. Because of a power outage, many of the shops were lit by candles, making the experience dream-like. Figures glided in and out of the shadows in a cacophony of bells, horns, motors, voices and rattling metal. An auto rickshaw behind us honked passionately. I looked over my shoulder and gave him a “what can we do?” smile. He shrugged and smiled: honking is in the Indian’s DNA. We passed the ox. Given that it was after 8 pm, he was now outside the shop. 
When we arrive at the Surya hotel, Josh and I decide to give the rickshaw drivers 200 rupees instead of the negotiated 150. We pay Josh and Aaron’s driver first, and just as we’re sorting out the second driver’s payment by some perplexing motive Aaron runs over and gives the first driver another 100. Josh and I stare dumbfounded and the driver solemnly holds the money to his head in an extreme gesture of danyavad. The other driver waited expectantly. So we gave him 300 rupees too. More head pressing. Felt good to be generous.
We bid Devesh goodnight, arranging a 4:45 am pick up. To our surprise the Surya at night looked like a wedding reception, with candlelit tables distributed across a perfectly-manicured lawn. Because all the tables were full we tried to persuade the waiter to let us site on the grass, picnic style, to which he disdainfully replied, “No. We treat our guests with respect.” We eventually crashed a table with two very blond English gals from Bath who extolled the virtues of Indian goat and mutton meat but who couldn’t wrap their heads around “cheese curry” (paneer). Listening to carnivore culinary stories challenged Josh and Aaron’s commitment to their vegetarian diet, notwithstanding Aaron’s dreadful spring roll experience in Rajasthan. To drink I ordered a “sahlab”, described as “warm, thick milk with cinnamon, coconut and raisins”. The table made fun of my selection until they tried it – hot, creamy, sweet and textured (thanks to cashews), it was like pudding in a glass.
At midnight we closed down the joint. I went to bed and Josh and Aaron tried to walk back to their hotel. As Josh told me the next morning, they were stalked by a persistent bicycle rickshaw who wouldn’t go away. They got lost and ended up on the main road. Who should find them but their bicycle rickshaw walla from earlier in the evening, pissed out of his mind. Whether it was alcohol or drugs wasn’t clear, but he was speaking Hindi to them in dramatic, unbalanced sweeping arm gestures. Yet again Aaron showed wacky judgement and hopped on the rickshaw before Josh could stop him. A terrifying 50 rupee ride later (during which said walla careened blindly into oncoming traffic), they made it home.
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I include this article written by freelancer Mariellen Ward because she does an excellent job of capturing nightfall in Varanasi through the eyes of a visitor.
Cremation fires burn day and night on the ghats in India’s holy city of Varanasi, powerful symbols of the cycle of death and life
Mariellen Ward. Toronto Star. Toronto, Ont.:Aug 29, 2009. p. T.1
The veil between life and death seems very thin here, and aboat ride on the river can become a journey to the other side.
It was just before twilight when I stepped onto the creaky planking of a small wood boat. The old knotty boatman pushed us away from the muddy shore and rowed. With each pull of the oars we crept along the surface of India’s most sacred river, the Ganges, past the scythe-like curve of ghats (steps) that line the western shore, toward Dasaswamedh Ghat, the main ghat, and the aarti (ceremony). The aarti is performed each evening at dusk to honour Ganga Ma, the Ganges River. Behind the ghats, and a wall of soaring stone palaces and pavilions, pulses the holy city of Varanasi.
As the sky darkened, the moist air filled with swarms of mosquitoes, huge flying insects and the damp, putrid smell of the river.
The riverfront darkness was broken at Dasaswamedh Ghat as crowds gathered for the aarti, performed by Hindu priests in flowing robes brandishing huge burning diyas (brass candles).
Loud music and chanting accompanied the choreographed ritual. I watched from my boat, tethered to many other boats jostling their cargoes of Indian pilgrims and tourists.
When the aarti ended, we untethered and continued to glide slowly north, the hypnotic current of the Ganga leading us along as we crossed the weakly lit ghats. Out of the darkness, a white shape appeared, wedged in the black water. Instinctively, I knew what it was and I froze. I prayed the boatman would not notice, would not point. I wanted to observe the blunt presence of death, wrapped tightly in a white shroud and floating in the Ganga, in my own quiet contemplation.
On we went, the boatman didn’t notice, and I breathed again.
Varanasi is the city of Shiva, Hindu god of destruction, and his energy is intensely present. I thought about the figure in the river and felt shaken as some of my own fears were confronted and destroyed. I wondered if this figure was recently one of the many dhoti- or sari-wearing pilgrims I saw descending the ghats for ritual immersion in the sacred river that they consider Shiva’s divine essence.
Was he or she one of the unending stream of believers who have made pilgrimages to Varanasi for 3,000 years, to seek salvation, to be absolved of sin, to become a jivan mukta, one who is liberated while still alive, or to die and cross over?
Crossing is a spiritual practise here in one of India’s holiest tirthas (crossing places). The souls of faithful Hindus are believed to cross to the other side in Varanasi, the most visited pilgrimage destination in India.
To die and be cremated here helps to achieve moksha, a release from the continuous cycle of life-death-rebirth. Those who cannot afford a full cremation are released into the river as partially cremated corpses.
It takes a long time to cross the six kilometres of Varanasi ghats in a small boat.
Finally, we reached Manikarnika Ghat, the main cremation ghat, one of the oldest and most sacred ghats in Varanasi. It is said that Vishnu, the preserver, dug a well here at the time of creation and Shiva was also present. This ghat symbolizes the cycle of creation and destruction.
In most Indian cities, the cremation grounds are well-removed and hidden from view. But Varanasi is Mahashamshana, the great cremation ground, and death is ever present. At any time of the day or night, Manikarnika Ghat is busy. As we passed slowly we were on our way back and travelling against the current several cremation fires burned and I saw the bearded face of one man being consumed by flames.
Varanasi is a cauldron of Hindu beliefs made manifest. The careful avoidance of death often practised in the West is burned away and the knife-like demarcation between this world and the next dissolves in an instant.
It’s strong medicine and the effect can be shocking. And beguiling. Along with mourners, pilgrims, tourists, citizens and students, Varanasi seethes with wayward foreigners who wear layers of dishevelled clothes and far-away expressions on their sunburnt faces.
I spent a week in Varanasi and often felt bombarded with intense energy and surreal disorientation. But on my last night, I took a boat across the Ganga to the flat, wide sandbank on the other side to watch the sunset over the city and the ghats.
Some time after the sun disappeared behind the ancient buildings, the pink sky faded, leaving a pale glow that made the entire scene soft and indelibly beautiful.
I began to understand why this spot is considered so very sacred.
Lights appeared and shimmered gently on the crystal surface of the sacred river and soon after the aarti began way down the river at the main ghat. But I could hear the powerful chants and see the huge flames of the diyas from where I was seated on the sand, across from Assi Ghat. I felt in that moment in harmony with the rhythm of Varanasi. It is so peaceful on the sand bank, yet very few living souls cross over to this other side.
I lit two diyas that I had purchased on the ghats, spoke the prayer to the mother of India, Jai Ganga Mata, and set the candles afloat on the river in the twilight as the boatman rowed me back to shore.
Mariellen Ward is a Toronto-based freelance writer.
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Standing up for myself in India, getting to know the Buddha in Sarnath, and the warm-up to puja, Varanasi style (Varanasi)
August 13
Not surprisingly, the overnight train from Agra to Varanasi wasn’t the most relaxing experience. My Spanish bunkmates roused around 5:30 am, a good thing because we arrived in Varanasi at 6:00 and I had no idea what time we were supposed to arrive.
I followed the Spaniards to the main arrivals hall which, as expected in India, was very busy. I stood there waiting to be found.
Not long after, my London friends Josh and Aaron arrived, looking none the worse for wear after their evening in AC3, one class below my train car. Miraculously, my Varanasi driver found me amidst the hubbub. I asked if we could give my friends a ride to their hotel. Oh no, the answer, their hotel is very far away. I’m sure.
I called Devesh, the Varanasi guide recommended by the October 2008 Departures Magazine whom I had organized before I left Canada. Sure enough, the boys’ hotel was in fact very close to the Surya where I was staying – go figure. So I explained to my driver, Babu, and his greeter sidekick that I had my own guide and that Josh and Aaron would be joining me. They respond that they want to take me to their boss. By this point in my trip I am prepared to put my foot down. Firm, but gentle, I insist they take the boys to their hotel before dropping me off. Babu furrows his brows, then smiles in agreement.
When I arrive at my hotel my room isn’t ready, so I head to the restaurant for breakfast. Inexplicably, all the fruits in my fruit salad are canned except for the banana. I am delighted to discover my hotel warmly embraces the standard issue Indian paper napkins which feel like they’re coated in plastic and disintegrate immediately upon exposure to food. The table runners are filthy, and the bamboo centerpiece has a drowned fly.
My grotty Varanasi hotel room
On that theme, I arrive to my grotty room and discover the bathroom has a few mosquitoes swirling around. No wonder – you could fit a raccoon through the gap under my balcony door. For the first (and as it turned out, only) time on my trip, I set up my mosquito net. Then I chuckled at the pathetic toilet paper provision and laughed when my Indian phone plug didn’t fit in the outlet.
I waited for Devesh in the lobby. I plugged my phone into the outlet and it rang – it was Devesh calling from two metres away to confirm I was me. What followed was a large discussion with Babu who insisted that I go to the office to speak with his boss. I gave Babu a straightforward choice: either he takes us with a tip that would recognize his extra effort, or we get a new driver. Babu passed his cell phone to Devesh who then passed it to me, explaining that they didn’t believe I had booked Devesh from Toronto. Sighing, I spoke to the boss (who, unusually is a woman, or perhaps a man with a very high voice) and firmly explained my position. Phone went back to Devesh then to Babu.
“Okay, all set,” Devesh says. That was easy.
Sarnath
We picked up Josh and Aaron and drove to Sarnath where the Buddha first began teaching and which consequently became a major religious centre after the 4th century C.E. Devesh revealed within two minutes why he came so highly recommended. He was smart, funny, had a perfect command of English and was a bewitching storyteller. By the time we arrived he was mid story and the three of us were captivated.
The "faux" Buddha
Pilgrims' gold rubbings
We visited a Buddhist temple which had the story of the Buddha painted by a Japanese painter and a sandstone Buddha made to look like gold. Devesh explained that according to the Buddha, the source of all our confusion is greed: when you have nothing you lose all anxiety. When you see the Buddha holding his fingers in a circle it represents “undoing the knot”, or releasing the confusion of life. I was so inspired I bought the book “What Would Buddh Do?” Ah, the Buddha – the MacGyver of the ancient world.
We strolled the grounds, admiring the massive bodhi tree and visiting the Ashoka temple ruins where pilgrims rubbed gold leaf on the ruins for good luck. We strolled clockwise around the Dhamek Stupa (a “stupa” being a mound shaped like an upside down alms bowl which stores Buddhist relics), followed for a while by a persistent child asking for chocolate. We surrendered to the tutelage of Aaron who had spent two weeks in a Thai Buddhist monastery and taught us to solemnly repeat “Om mani padme hum”. Aaron then described how, after a week of 16-hour days of silence, he made a ninja run for the fence to get cigarettes. After that we visited the Jain temple where we learned there are two kinds of Jains: those who wear white and those who wear nothing. We saw neither. Jains do not believe in harming any living beings; they won’t even eat onions or garlic for fear of offending the bacteria that live on such beings. I was intrigued when Devesh said that most Jains were stingy businessmen. Hmmm.
Weaving the good ole' fashioned way
Yet again, the inevitable craft shop pilgrimage. In Varanasi they’re known for their silks with metallic thread. Our craft shop hosts claimed the process for weaving silk hadn’t changed in the last 200 years. Having visited the primitive conditions of the weaver, I can believe it. Boy, did we sure learn about making silk! The silk thread comes from Bangalore. The spools of copper wire are cleaned in a large vat of sinister-looking blue chemical whose fragrance permeates the air and then polished in sawdust. It’s dyed into metallic colours (silver, gold) after which a machine mixes the silk thread with the coloured wire, making metallic silk thread. The weaving is done piece work all over the city. The weaving machine uses punch cards that instruct the machine which threads to weave. Thus the pattern is created. Of course my immersive silk education led to a scarf purchase.
Josh, Aaron and I treated Devesh to lunch at my hotel which Devesh claimed was one of the best restaurants in Varanasi. I recalled my dubious breakfast in silence. But I have to admit – the palak paneer, dal makhani, garlic nan, pineapple raita, babganoush and mango lassi were pretty awesome.
Heading to the ghat in Varanasi
Devesh then organized the two bike rickshaws to take us to the ghat for the evening Hindu ceremony by the Ganga, the Ganges. I was so excited – going to evening puja in Varanasi is one of the most quintessential Indian rituals you can experience! And the rickshaw ride there? Spectacular, amazing, incredible, fabulous. As the streets got increasingly busy, you could feel the happy energy surge. All kinds of people – locals, pilgrims, holy sadhus, tourists from all over the world – were flowing down the road to the ghats, the riverbank steps. Although technically no vehicular traffic is allowed, our rickshaw drivers stealthily bribed the police to let us pass – without us noticing. Given the rickshaw congestion, this was clearly common practice and undoubtedly very lucrative for the gatekeepers.
“Quick, look over there!” Devesh said, pointing to the textile store to our right.
“What the…?” I started. Inside the shop was a giant ox. According to Devesh, the ox has been visiting the store on a daily basis for years. He causes no problems, and even leaves the store to relieve himself before coming back in. This ox was famous enough to make the pages of the Toronto Star.
Jupiter Temple
We passed the Jupiter Temple, the only temple in the world dedicated to worshipping the planet Jupiter. Luckily it was Thursday, the only day of the week the temple is operational. And by golly, it was busy.
If this was the opening act, I couldn’t wait for the main show!
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Courtesy of the Toronto Star:
At this clothing store, ox marks the spot; Varanasi shop owner welcomes the presence of blessed, aging animal
Rick Westhead. Toronto Star. Toronto, Ont.:Apr 23, 2009. p. A.10
“Namaste, mind the ox.”
Not the usual greeting a visitor would expect walking into a store on one of the traffic-choked roads near this sacred city’s famous riverfront ghats.
Four years ago, Naveen Chhugani opened a clothing store called Lucknow Chikan House on a narrow, gritty street where he sells shirts and kurtas for 120 to 220 rupees ($3 to $5.50 Canadian). On his first day of business, a red ribbon still stretched across the entrance of the store, an ox wandered in and sprawled out on the cool floor.
It’s come back every day since.
“We call him Nandi Baba, named after Lord Shiva’s ram,” Chhugani said, folding clothes and wiping down an idol of Lord Shiva behind his counter. “I don’t know what we did to deserve this. We’re blessed. We open at 10 every morning, and he’s always there, standing outside, just waiting. It’s a unique thing in all of India.”
Lord Shiva is one of Hinduism’s most revered gods, both a lord of life and a destroyer of life. His bull, Nandi, was a constant companion.
On Sundays, when the store is closed, the ox usually sits on the store’s front steps. Chhugani said he feeds Nandi Baba sweets, barley and vegetables – tomatoes are his favourite. Somehow, the ox knows not to relieve himself inside.
Over the past few years, word of Nandi Baba’s favoured store has spread through Varanasi. Chhugani said tour guides, ferrying both Indian and foreign visitors alike to the turgid waters of the Ganges River for a boat ride, often stop off at the Chikan House first to take pictures of the placid and mangy-looking ox.
As is the case with cows, which typically roam free on streets even in cities like New Delhi, oxen are considered holy in India. But Nandi Baba doesn’t look especially consecrated. His horns look mouldy and his hide is mottled and worn. “I think he’s 14 or 15,” Chhugani said.
“I don’t even want to think about what happens after he dies. I guess we’ll take him down to the Ganges and put him in the river.” The Ganges is Hinduism’s holiest river. It’s considered an honour for Hindus to be cremated at one of the funeral ghats (steps) along the river, their ashes then deposited in the water.
Chhugani has made the ox a part of his business. His invoices, order slips and even his business cards now include photos of Nandi Baba.
Chhugani said no customers have ever been hurt by the ox, and no one has tried to shoo him from the store, especially after an incident with local police a year ago.
A few days before the prime minister was scheduled to arrive in Varanasi on a visit in March 2008, a police officer walking the streets tried to move along a cow that was standing next to a sweet shop, swatting it with his baton. The very next day, the same cow somehow made its way into the police station a block away, ransacking the place.
“It was quite a day,” said Vikram Yadav, a local journalist. “The police were helpless to do anything. It was such close quarters and they couldn’t do anything. They couldn’t shoot it, there would have been a riot. We have learned to live with animals here. It’s a way of life.”
Even in a shop selling saris and kurtas.
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August 12
Up at 4:55 am, fraught with worry that I wouldn’t get up in time to see sunrise at the Taj Mahal. Justifiably so, given that the promised wake-up call never materialized. I daintily navigated my custom-tailored salwar kameez, gently coaxing my calves into the extraordinarily tight legs. The stitches groaned in complaint.
Downstairs the lobby was dark and abandoned save for a man sleeping in the middle of the floor. I gingerly stepped past him and waited outside for my guide Nadeem who arrived as planned.
Nandu drove us through the sleepy city to the entrance of the Taj Mahal grounds, many kilometers away from the building itself. Nadeem and I hopped a large, battery-operated golf cart people mover to the security check where my last sorry-ass piece of gum was confiscated. We then walked to the outbuildings where Nadeem started explaining the history of the Taj. I barely heard a word due to my anxiousness at wanting to see the building while hundreds of tourists poured through the sandstone arcades of the out buildings. Finally, he allowed us to proceed.
The glorious Taj Mahal
When I caught my first real glimpse of the Taj, I was overcome with emotion and nearly cried. No matter how many photos, videos or simulations one might see, nothing can do justice to actually being there. The building stood etched against the cloudy backdrop, its edges outlined crisply and perfectly. Its sheer beauty, its power, its reverence gripped me fiercely. I was in the presence of greatness, witness to a timeless love story. It was the most amazing building I had ever seen.
“Por favor senorita, muevete!”
I am rudely yanked out of my reverie by aggressive Spaniards trying to shove me out of the way of their photos. Luckily my New York friends arrived before I had a chance to make tortilla out of the Spanish. We walked to the Taj itself where we removed our shoes. I preferred to go barefoot so the building’s energy could travel unencumbered into my being. Nadeem took us into the darkened inner chamber where we surreptitiously took pictures of the spectacular marble designs inlaid with rubies, emeralds, onyx and other semi-precious stones. I wondered about how many mistakes it took before perfection was achieved, and how those errors were addressed, both materially and with the poor soul who dared screw up.
Inlaid marble detail
Outside Nadeem took us to the edge overlooking the riverside where the foundation for a second Taj Mahal, this one fashioned entirely in black marble, was to be built to inter Shah Jahan. Moreover, this second Taj was to be connected to the first by way of a 600 metre diamond-encrusted, sterling silver bridge. No wonder his son imprisoned him before the entire kingdom was bankrupted. (The Taj purportedly cost the equivalent of $7 million dollars back then – as in 350 years ago. Juan joked that this explained why China was economically ahead of India.)
We cajoled Nadeem into giving us time to just to hang out and enjoy being there. Despite all the visitors (and this was low season), the gardens and chirping birds made it lovely and serene. Although it was hot, the clouds were gentle and the rains held off. Eventually Nadeem dragged me away.
I returned to the hotel where the waiter took me to the roof to see the Taj Mahal. This was followed by a breakfast of parantha aloo with yoghurt and pickle, sweet lassi, masala chai and mandarin juice. Nadeem returned earlier than I expected – no idea why he was in such a rush – and off we went to the Agra Fort where he ended up being hounded by a persistent security guard who relentlessly demanded that Nadeem display his credentials. In between pesterings I heard how the palace’s jewels were stolen by the “Britishers”.
The 7th generation
Next stop, as was inevitable, was the crafts shop allegedly run by the 7th generation descendants of inlay marble artisans. (I came to learn that “seventh generation” was common amongst India’s artisan families. Coincidence?) I was taught the steps to create inlay marble: first, the white marble is covered in henna design; the marble is chiseled with iron; semi-precious gems (malachite, black onyx, jasper, etc.) are filed into tiny pieces; resin is heated which bonds the pieces; the pieces are glued with a secret sauce of sugar cane, rice and five kinds of natural ingredients; the finished artwork is washed and polished; finally, the shopkeeper quotes you an outrageously high price for elephant coasters which you just can’t reconcile yourself to buy.
To my surprise, that marked the end of my tour. I thought my tour was to last longer, but oh no, Nadeem impressed upon me that he was only hired for the Taj and Agra. I regretted aloud that I should have hired my own guide as I still had over six hours until my train. He suggested I go to the mall and watch a movie. I asked him to walk me through the market outside the Jami Masjid. He refused. Nandu finally convinced him to walk me through the local market which was, despite its brevity, a rewarding experience. I felt that people engaged with me warmly because I had a guide/translator.
Once Nadeem and I parted ways I informed Nandu that I did not come to India to hang out in a mall. We agreed that Mathura was too far of a drive, so we tried to figure out an alternative.
“It rain? We go market?” I was starting to speak like Nandu.
Tried to get him to take me to the Roman Catholic cemetery which I read had interesting and old (16th century) tombstones, but in his confusion we ended up at the decidedly uninteresting St. Mary’s Church. Then I suggested Itimad-ud-Daulah’s Tomb, known as the “Baby Taj”.
The route there took us across an old-fashioned iron train bridge. It had the same manic intensity as Indian roads except without the relief of a shoulder. It
Tomb at Baby Taj
was not for the faint of heart. Luckily the Itimad-ud-Daulah grounds were peaceful and beautiful, which is considerably more than I can say for the bathrooms. The squat toilets had no electricity, so when I closed my stall door it was pitch black. I had so many objects on my person in jeopardy of falling – sure enough I snatched my sunglasses mid flight on their descent into the hole. Yikes. Relaxing under a tree after I walked the grounds my guidebook kindly advised that many Indian monuments have huge beehives. Wonderful.
Alas, I still had over four hours to kill before I had to be at the train station and, let’s face it, there is very little to do in Agra other than the sites I’d already seen. (Hello, business opportunity!) Nandu took me to the Mughal Sheraton, one of India’s top hotels, where I spent most of the time sitting on the swing of their rooftop Taj Mahal lookout. As I watched the gardeners at work I couldn’t help but think what a contrast the Sheraton was to the rest of India, how elite and out of reach it was to the vast majority of Indians… and how it might make me really angry if I were Indian and was made so acutely aware of my “have not” status. I was conflicted.
View from Mughal Sheraton
On my way to the restaurant I ran into the sick French family from Jaipur. They looked much happier: tummies were all better and the daughter had a huge smile.
In the restaurant I couldn’t help ordering the “Tower of Bagel” with chicken tikka, chutney, crispy onions and potatoes. I was warned of its spiciness. Spicy? Why do Indians think our mouths are gaping holes of raw, tender flesh? There was nothing spicy about it.
While waiting for the food I skimmed the “religion” section of my DK travel book. The very last sentence of the section caught my eye:
“The first Jews came to India in about 587 BC and now live mainly in Mumbai and Cochin.”
587 BC? Wait a second. That predates Christianity, Islam, Sikhism, Jainism, Buddhism, and… Hinduism as we know it? And the Jews are still there? That’s a remarkable accomplishment for an afterthought.
On the drive to the train station in Tundla, Nandu noted the sign for Kanpur, his home town. He proclaimed that it was the third-largest city in India after Kokata and Mumbai. Bigger than Delhi? I wondered. “How big?” I asked. “600, 700 million,” Nandu answered proudly.
In the train station parking lot I gave Nandu his tip. The recommended guideline was 50 – 100 rupees a day. He had been my driver for six days; I gave him 1500. He looked at it quietly and asked, “I make you happy?”
“Uh, can’t you tell from the tip?” I ask hopefully.
“Yes,” he smiles and laughs. He then gets back into the car, locks the door and begins backing up – with my knapsack in the car. My heart sunk. But he was only re-parking the car.
After a quick shower with bug spray – it was now firmly dusk – we walked to the train station. Mildly chaotic, but manageable. Nandu stood in line in front of a dubious-looking kiosk. I say a prayer of thanks that he hasn’t abandoned me. An old, unbalanced man comes over and begins asking me what train I’m on. “I’m with him!” I quickly point to Nandu. Then the young man standing in front of Nandu comes over helpfully. After five more times of pointing at Nandu we finally understand each other.
The train station is old and dirty. The only sign of modernity is a digital readerboard listing the trains – in Hindi. The platform is framed by a soaring iron roof whose rafters are densely inhabited by thousands of loudly-chirping birds. The din is incredible. As if it’s raining whistles.
Nandu walks me to the waiting room. It says “Gents”, but he kindly points to the other foreigners in the room. I’m sure when it was first done it was quite charming with its blue and white tile, light yellow walls and light blue vaulted ceilings, but the dirt was now adding 3D relief to the walls and the water stains clouds to the ceiling. Two fluorescent lights dimly lit the room; the fans barely nudged the moist heat. One woman looked like she had been there for ten years. The boredom was palpable.
I discovered one of the other foreigners, an English bloke, was on my train to Varanasi. I felt better, until I saw the rate running across the floor. As I watched it go through the archway I say to the guy, “I wouldn’t be surprised if an elephant came through there,” to which he replied, “at least it wouldn’t fit in my bag.” Indeed.
Tundla train station
And thus I became friends with Josh and Aaron, a godsend because trying to figure out which was our train was completely ridiculous. There were trains coming and going on different tracks without any clarity of their destination. Sometimes they only stopped for five minutes. Josh began to panic mildly. Where is the official? he asked repeatedly, each time increasingly anxious but still smiling bravely. I eventually found a guy who flagged us when our train finally arrived.
We started walking past the exceptionally-crowded sleeper cars, Josh leading the way with increasing purpose. Josh and Aaron were travelling AC3, so they found their car before my AC2. I walked past the AC2 car, thinking there was more than one, and realizing my mistaken assumption ran back in a flap.
I hauled myself onto the train and was faced with a short hallway littered with piles of cardboard containers, aluminum paper, rice, dal, half-eaten chapattis. The train worker showed me to my seat, a single sleeper occupied by a barefoot, moustached Indian man sprawled on a ratty sheet. The train worker barked at him sharply in Hindi and the man scrambled to the four-seater berth across the aisle where his two buddies were sitting.
They stared at me. I stared at my ticket.
They continued staring. I stared intently at my sheet. I began giggling. Then I noticed the big, hairy toe of the guy on the berth above hanging uncomfortably close to my face.
So this is India. What have I gotten myself into?
I closed my berth curtain. Show’s over, boys.
My 5-minute single berth
The curtain opened. It was the train guy kicking me out of my berth. I was moved to a 4-person berth with three Spaniards. Ni modo.
I chatted with them for a bit, a functional conversation about train logistics. They watched my bag while I used the grotty toilet. Back in my berth I settled in with the bedding provided, my ear plugs, Bose headset, eye patch and Chris Anderson’s Free on the iPod. It was going to be a long night.
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Doing my bit for the world record and fundraising attempts. Details here http://beatcancereverywhere.com/.
#BEATCANCER!!!
Negotiating, Indian style, Nandu teaches me the caste system, and culture shock in abandoned mosques (Fatehpur Sikri)
August 11
After a breakfast of “vegetable crooked” (it was actually a veggie croquette, but “crooked” was curiously appropriate given my experience with the salwar kameez scallywag, Aslam) and pakora-style French toast, I went to check out. At the reception counter I tried helping a French family whose kids had been vomiting all night and whose parents were trying desperately to find a doctor and suitable medication. Those poor kids looked tres malades. After they left I decided to show the staff the yellow scarf I had bought from Aslam in good faith, the one covered in inked numbers and scratchings of various colours and for which I was embarrassed to admit I had paid 200 rupees ($5). They didn’t seem to understand (or have the interest in) warning other tourists against this rogue, unscrupulous Aslam Khan of Meer Handicrafts. Their advice? Don’t buy from guys in the street. Ha!
On a mission, I directed Nandu to drive around the corner where I entered the grounds of the offending shop. A neighbour in typically-curious Indian fashion came up to me and commenced the interrogation:
Take a close-up of me!!
Where are you from?
Are you married?
How long for?
How many kids?
Why no kids? Are there problems?
Take a picture of me.
Why isn’t the picture a close up? Take another one.
By this point Aslam’s nephew had arrived, but Aslam was nowhere to be found. I explained to the neighbour, the neighbour’s husband, the nephew and Nandu why I was there. I was assured, as I knew I would be, that Aslam was on his way. Sorry, I said, I don’t have time to wait. I demanded my money back. The nephew said he had no money, could I wait for Aslam. Sorry, no, I responded, and I gave him a choice: either he gives me my money back or I exchange for another scarf. Looking worried, he unlocked the shop and I perused the selection, dissatisfied by the ugly parade of scarves. Instead, I picked up a beaded bag (for my niece) and ask that I take this instead. He agreed.
And then, the most amazing thing happened. His furrowed brow relaxed into a massive smile and he stuck out his hand. This absence of hard feelings and genuine warmth following a negotiation was something I experienced more than once in India, and each time I was surprised and completely charmed.
Our eastbound lane on the Agra Road from Jaipur was under construction, so we essentially shared it with oncoming traffic. I watched in horror as one motorcyclist who wasn’t paying attention came straight at us. At the very last minute he swerved and Nandu yelled a bloody tirade at him. We both laughed heartily, once I started breathing again.
After listening to Nandu’s high-pitched whiny music for the seventeenth time I asked if he sang. “No,” he said. “I am Brahmin. Brahmin don’t sing. It is not respectful enough.” I took this as an invitation to ask him about castes in India. He was part of the Sharma (which he pronounced “Sarma”) caste, number three in the Brahmin pecking order of seven sub castes. He explained that men can marry below their caste, but women can’t, but if you are from Mathura Village you can only marry members of your own caste due to it being the birthplace of Krishna. He spoke of the lowest caste as “the sweepers.” I asked him if inter-caste relationships were portrayed in Bollywood films, to which he answered yes. I asked if it happened in real life. “No,” his unwavering answer. Then I asked which was worse: marrying a lower-caste Hindu or a high-caste Muslim?”
“No. Neither possible,” his perfunctory reply.
Leaving Jaipur
Just then a truck nearly ran us off the road. Nandu squawked, pulled in front of the truck, slowed to a stop, got out and stood in the middle of the highway yelling at the driver. I studied the “Jolly Fat-Go” road sign with great interest.
Back on track I learned that he was a middle child of four brothers and three sisters, all of whom were still living in UP, the nickname for the state of Uttar Pradesh. He grew up in a six-room, one-story house with some land where they ate chapatti, rice and dal everyday. He said he cooked for himself in Delhi. “Better than your mother?” I asked mischievously. “No!” the startled reply. “My mother is, good cook.” We laughed.
His phone rang. Nandu chatted away as I stared at the green countryside. Then he handed me his phone.
“Speak to my friend. He doesn’t speak English.”
“Uh…namaste?” I said tentatively.
“Arrey, dost! Kyaa chal rahaa hai? Kya mein aapke madad kar sakti hoon?” A torrent of Hindi filled my ear. I proceeded to read off every Hindi expression I had thus far written down, much to Nandu’s giggling delight and my unseen friend’s perplexity.
Phone conversation over, I asked Nandu when he was growing up if all castes learned in the same classroom.
“Yes, but Sweeper children stay in corner.”
“Oh. Could you talk to them?”
“Talking ok. But not touch. If they touch you [he demonstrated by tapping my leg] you have to go home, change your clothes and wash.”
“How many Sweeper children per class?” I inquired.
“Three, maybe two, maybe one.”
“If they touched you, would they be punished?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
He wouldn’t answer. He pretended he was tired and clearly didn’t want to continue this conversation.
I felt profoundly sad.
I watched the scenery slide by. Little children crossing highways alone. Tractors carrying impossibly humongous loads like giant bloated mushrooms. Green fields studded with brown buildings, trees, distant hills obscured by monsoonal mist. Tractors teeming with brightly-coloured passengers. Occasional towns with mechanics, machinery, fruit and vegetable stands, cows, goats, and always lines of people trying to cross the road. Sentries of brick kiln chimneys like rustic versions of the Qutb Minar.
Driving on the Agra Road
The guidebook recommended the Pelican Hotel for lunch. I agreed to the thali, given that was all the one chef was able to prepare. A young guy on a bike returned with a small black plastic bag whose undisclosed contents undoubtedly would comprise part of my lunch. Strange, steam engine noises emerged from the kitchen. Eventually I was presented with a delicious potato curry, un-refrigerated yogurt and fresh chapatti.
My request for the bathroom led me to one of the hotel rooms. It was then I understood why Indian hotels are reputed to have different standards than in North America. The filthy room had a bed of doutbtful hygiene and chaotically-wired 1960’s-issue television. Then there was the bathroom. The toilet seat was covered in unidentifiable liquid and there was a bug party going on in the bowl. The flush was like their Jacuzzi; they continued frolicking afterward even though (or because?) a strong sewerage smell filled the room.
Back in the car Nandu went slap! and showed me the crushed carcass of the mosquito he had just killed.
Aack! Dengue!
I covered myself with bug spray.
We entered the state of Uttar Pradesh and he shouts gleefully “U.P.!” I say, “U.P., I pee, we pee,” and he laughs uproariously. Seems guys all over the world find pee jokes hilarious.
We arrive at the parking lot for Fatehpur Sikri, a mosque and palace built by Mughal ruler Akbar in the late 1500’s and abandoned shortly afterwards for reasons unknown. As soon as I exited the car in the blazing heat to commence the one kilometre ascent I was surrounded by touts. One was particularly clingy. I tried all sorts of tactics: sympathy (Please, I just want to be by myself); logic (If you won’t take my money, what’s the advantage to you accompanying me?); and slyness (I’m from Goa, leave an Indian sister alone). I finally said, “Look – you’d be better off spending your time looking for someone who will give you money.” They finally gave up.
The imposing heights of Fatehpur Sikri
At the top of the hill was an imposing building and equally imposing staircase to reach it. By this point I am a complete sweatball and climbing a huge set of stairs doesn’t help. At the top I am greeted with a scene of such chaos you cannot imagine. There are old people, young people, healthy people, sick people, beggars, families, goats, people yelling, running, loitering, pleading, jumping, sleeping. I deposit my shoes with the shoe minder and enter the gate. It is even crazier inside. Nothing could have prepared me for this. Nothing – there is no training. India is crazy, dirty, crowded and Islamic India is the most. And the corners – what a smell! As long as there’s a corner someone will have already marked it.
Fatehpur Sikri scene
As I start to walk around a guy who wants to be my guide latches onto me. He claims to work for the mosque and not want any money. “No one does anything for free in India,” I answer. When he won’t leave me alone I finally say, “Please, please, I would like to be alone. Will you respect me?” He acquiesces and is immediately replaced by two very persistent three year olds. They disperse and are replaced by slightly older children. So I bring out my top secret weapon: I started speaking Hebrew really, really fast, made even more interesting that I don’t really speak Hebrew.
“Manishtanahalailahazehmikolhalailot!” the ritual line from the Passover meal came spilling out of my mouth at breakneck speed.
It worked! I confused the little hustlers into submission.
Unfortunately, I find the whole experience gross, particularly as I am walking around barefoot. Everywhere smells like urine.
After collecting my shoes I dart quickly to ask a Westerner if he knows where the palace entrance is. He’s Spanish and, thankfully, provides the directions. I walk there, sweating and seared. I desperately look for my hat which I have cleverly left in my suitcase. I then go into a lotion-slapping frenzy, breaking the heart of a vendor who thought my scrounging was for his benefit.
More civilized: Fatehpur Sikri Palace
As opposed to the Jami Masjid which had no entrance fee, the palace cost 260 rupees and was worth every penny, because entering it was like attaining Nirvana. It was quiet, unpopulated, sort of green and had slightly less urine.
I decided to walk back to the car, even though it was on a different road. How hard could it be? A tuktuk stops and offers to take me back to the parking lot for 50 rupees. I say no thinks, I can walk for free. 30, then. No thanks, I can walk for free. 20? I say I’ll do it for 10. Agreed. Good thing because I would have walked the wrong way.
Nandu and I arrive in Agra and we go to my hotel, 8 months old and in the middle of nowhere. My room is # 209 but I press floor #1 to get there. I was confused. There was something else a little off about the hotel, but I couldn’t put my figure on it. Then I realized it was the woman working at Reception: she was the first woman I had seen working at an Indian hotel thus far.
Back to the car, Nandu drove me around Agra, described previously by my friend Dave as a “poophole”. We saw the entrance to the Taj Mahal grounds (you cannot drive anywhere close to the building itself), the Red Fort and massive monsoon puddles. I found a tiny Internet provider where the first 15 minutes was spent just trying to get it to work. He tried to charge me for that time, but he backed off very easily when I challenged him. I was hungry, so Nandu persuaded me to try the restaurant next door to the Internet shack named “Quality Quality Quality Quality Restaurant”. I reluctantly agreed.
It was a small, windowless restaurant with five waiters serving seven large tables, only two of which were occupied, by tourists. Picture bloated upholstered benches, the top half of the backrest covered with a pink fabric condom, orange walls, a blue-lit disco faux chandelier and the steady hum of the pop machine. Zero ambiance, except for the five waiters staring at you. I ordered a Mughali dish of paneer with nine fruits and vegetables which was remarkably tasteless.
Suddenly the electricity popped. In a recessed, window-free room, this was an interesting proposition. Luckily I had my mini headlight flashlight which helped illuminate the room. Chalk another point for the experienced traveller!
An Indian family arrived. Locals?! I was ecstatically shocked. It didn’t bring back flavour to those nine fruits and vegetables, but I was no longer feeling as duped.
It occurred to me that it was six months to the day I would begin my fortieth year. Shit.
The boys from NYC @ the Quality x 4 restaurant
The restaurant was beginning to fill up. One of the waiters brought three guys to my table and sat them down unceremoniously. Juan and Alejandro were brothers from New York who decided to do a two-week whirlwind trip of India: Delhi- Agra – Jaipur – Pushkar – Udaipur – Mumbai – Kerala – Chennai. Their friend Kurt was a last-minute addition. I guessed his background was Haitian and he nearly fell over when I started chatting him up in Haitian Creole.
The boys had me in stitches with their travel stories. Having no pre-arranged accommodation, the tourist office directed them to a hostel in Paharganj, Delhi, located up a tight alley and with a feature “welcome urinal” outside the front door. Their room was approximately 64 square feet with three beds and no window. They were supposed to have air conditioning but the power went out, so they spent the whole night rolling over into each other’s faces and waiting for the alarm clock to ring. At 6 am they ran up to the restaurant only to wake up the entire hotel staff who were slumbering on the roof. Then in Mathura, the home of the god Krishna, they were the *only* non Indians and were subject to rather invasive body searches. I arranged to meet them the following morning at the Taj Mahal.
When I left the restaurant and met Nandu he started walking away from our car to another, similar white car.
“You switched cars?” I inquired.
“Yes,” he replied. “It is my friend’s.”
I waited for more but no further explanation was forthcoming.
Back at the hotel I arranged a 5 am wake-up call. They asked me if I would need hot water in the morning. “I have to ask for hot water?” I was puzzled. The hot water was evidently turned off at night and then switched on again at 7 am. Indian quirkiness was starting to make more sense.
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