Kicking it with T-money

During our visit to Calcutta, I have dragged Elliot to several sites commemorating the lives of two of my favorite human beings: Rabindranath Tagore and Sri Ramakrishna. We have traveled hours out of our way to visit the locations where these two amazing men lived their lives. Let me tell you a bit about each of them.

Rabindranath Tagore is often referred to as “the poet laureate of India”. He was the scion of a legendary Bengali family. His grandfather Dwarkanath was one of the founders of the religious movement Brahmo Samaj, which believes in the inherent equality of all religions and focuses on one all-encompassing deity. It’s basically the Unitarianism of India. Dwarkanath was so respected, he was referred to as “Prince Dwarkanath” and was awarded his own coat-of-arms by Her Majesty the Queen of England.

Rabindranath’s father was Debendranath, who was a famous leader of the Bengali Rennaisance movement. Like his father before him, he preached against archaic Hindu practices such as suttee (where a widow will self-immolate at the funeral pyre of her deceased husband). He was so respected, he was given his own title, “Maharshi”.

Rabindranath, however, is the most famous of them all. He became a prized poet and writer, and won the Nobel Prize for his poetic collection “Gitanjali” (Gitanjali can be translated into “Song Offerings”). Gitanjali happens to be one of the best poetic collections of all time, by the way. Fun fact.

Tagore was also knighted, but forfeited his knighthood in reaction to the massacre at Amritsar, when the British fired upon unarmed Indians. While believing that the West had much to offer the East, Tagore was an ardent patriot who counted Ghandi among his close friends. Ghandi referred to Tagore as “Gurudev”, making Rabindranath the third linear generation of his family to be so famous as to have his own unique title.

Rabi also founded his own university and ashram at Shantiniketan (Shanti = Peace, Niketan = Abode, hence “Abode of Peace) called Visvabharata. His students include very famous artists, and Indira Ghandi (PM of India) studied at Visvabharata.

We visited Shantiniketan on Monday, and walked through the same buildings in which Tagore had taught his own students. Ambling through the university, we marveled at the various works of art which had been installed on campus as expressions of the students’ artistic expression. I spied a young student drawing a sketch of a small banyan tree, and was so moved by the intellectual and artistic thirst inherent in this simple action that I felt obliged to compliment her on her drawing. She smiled shyly, and we moved away.

The classrooms at Visvabharata are all outdoors, with concrete semi-circles installed in a sweeping arborous landscape. We sat down for a moment and stared out at the dormitories, then continued on.

At the Bolpur train station nearby, we saw the actual carriage car upon which Tagore took his last trip, from Shantiniketan to his home in Calcutta. A day later, we visited Tagore’s home, with exhibitions showing Tagore in his travels. Towards the end of his life, Tagore traveled to several countries a year, giving speeches and sharing his thoughts on life, culture, and India’s spiritual heritage. I teared up when standing in the room where Tagore died; he happens to be one of my favorite poets.

Tagore’s writing is distinctly anchored in Indian society; it is arguably quite difficult to understand much of his mystical poetry without having a basic understanding of Hinduism, and the tranenscendentalist beliefs of Brahmo Samaj and Eastern mysticism more specifically. But at the same time, Tagore’s poetry is profoundly universal.

Since I cannot possibly do justice to Tagore through mere description, allow me to provide you with one of my favorite of Tagore’s poems. This is often referred to as “My Prayer” (Tagore often would not name his poems) from his Nobel Prize-winning collection, Gitanjali:

This is my prayer to thee, my Lord — strike, strike at the root of penury in my heart.
Give me the strength lightly to bear my joys and sorrows.
Give me the strength to make my love fruitful in service.
Give me the strength never to disown the poor or bend my knees before insolent might.
Give me the strength to raise my mind high above daily trifles.
And give me the strength to surrender my strength to thy will with love.

Later I’ll try to write a little something about Sri Ramakrishna.

Until then,

J&E

FOOD

I thought, upon first arriving to India, that Elliot and I would end up losing weight during our trip. After all, we would be walking everywhere, and we’d mostly be eating vegetarian food.

We have been dangerously full more times than I can count on this trip. We started in the North, where the dishes were heavy on the creamy sauce. Butter chicken with naan, Punjabi style, was a favorite. I’d order seconds, and regret it later.

In Mumbai, the Sham family showed us no mercy. We would travel from streetcart to streetcart, eating freshly prepared sweets like mango tarts and custard apple icecream. At one point, the Shams took us out for an authentic Rajasthani experience. The food came in a large silver plate, with several smaller cups withi it. As soon as we thought we were done, waiters would come by and refill the plate. Mrs. Sham explained that the speed of service was deliberate; it was meant to bombard your stomach so that you were full quickly. That way, you wouldn’t linger at the table and abuse the buffet privileges.

This also meant that we were fit to burst upon completing our meal. When we were done, we rang a large bell to signify our contentment with the food. The entire restaurant staff yelled out “auhjo!” (I’m gessing on the spelling), a Gujurati word that meant “come back!” I don’t know how we could possibly come back to that restaurant, however, unless we fasted the day before.

We thought we couldn’t possibly get more full than Mumbai. Then the Poddars made a power move for the title, “make James and Elliot so full, they can’t think about food ever again.”

The Poddars, the family of my friend Harsh, are dedicated vegetarians. I assumed that whatever food they had couldn’t tempt me. I was wrong. Our first night in, they invited us to a large family dinner, serving us stuffed mushrooms, ‘puchkas’ with aloo (potato) filling, pasta, and nachas with Indian salsa. We ate to our hearts content, till our stomachs gently signaled surrender.

That’s when we learned that those were just the appetizers.

When the main course came, we were always convinced to ty ‘a bite of this’ and ‘just a taste of this one’. Our plates were refilled before we could finish our first helpings.

After main course, there was dessert. Three different kinds of dessert. After that, we had to drink some lassi, “just to help digest the meal.”

Mrs. Poddar says tomorrow she will make us an authentic Rajasthani meal. We know what that means.

And next week is Thanksgiving.

I don’t think we’re gonna make it.

-J.&E.

My Least Favorite Thing About India

I’ve been pretty much in love with everything in India so far. Even things that I would never tolerate back in the states take on a certain exotic charm here in India. Pouring buckets of cold water over myself for a shower? How energizing. Sour lime juice as a drink? That’s a new one! Cyclones that hit when you’re miles from your hotel? What a great experience! A paucity of toilet paper? Ain’t life grand!

There is one thing about India that I feel I could never get used to, however. One thing that gives America a decided advantage in the ‘places to live’ contest. One thing that I strongly believe should be changed immediately, for the sake of the country’s future.

The smog.

The air quality here came as a bit of a shock; I’d had Indian friends warn me beforehand, but I still did not think it would be as bad as it is. In Delhi, the uniquely congested traffic made me fear to roll my windows down. On the sidewalk, piles of trash had been lit on fire, and the resulting smoke produced an unpleasant smell. After a few days in that city, I felt the full effects of the smog, coughing constantly and negotiating to minimize our time spent at the center of the city.

When our friend Danish offered to drive us up to the North Indian countryside, I jumped at the chance, assuming that once I got out of the city, my lungs would be in a happier state. As we drove north, however, the sky remained a dull grey. Danish explained that the Punjabi farmers cleared their fields by burning them after harvest, despite the illegal nature of such activities. We passed several burning fields on our way to Ludhiana. Uttar Pradesh, as well, had several large factories that would belch pillars of fire from its smokestacks; our friends explained that the UP had a lot of industrial plants.

Bombay has been better in terms of smog, but coming into the harbor by boat allows you to see the air quality more clearly: the entire city seems bathed in a grey mist that is reminiscent of a Northern European fog. Coming back from the island of Elefanta, Elliot and I were able to see the sun set behind the city. It was a beautiful sight, a huge red ball of flame peeking out from between the skyscrapers that stood proudly above the city. However, the fact that we were able to stare directly at the sun without blinking gives you some idea of how much the smog had colored the Bombay air.

Gandhi wrote that “If we cultivate the habit of keeping the air pure and of breathing only fresh air, we can save ourselves from many a terrible disease.” Of course, it’s easy to admonish India for its air quality, but economic development through industrial modernization cannot easily occur without its ill-starred offspring, industrial pollution. And in a country of 1 billion people, it’s hard to regulate individual habits that contribute to pollution. If I had any solutions, I’d happily offer them here. In the meantime, when I see small street children running between stopped traffic in central Delhi, or South Bombay, I simply wonder what the price of this air pollution may turn out to be.

-J.&E.

Sossegado

I write this post from a small Internet cafe in Calangute, as a heavy rain falls from the cloudy Goa sky above us.

That’s right, we are in Goa, the legendary Indian beachtown for hippies and yoga freaks. Elliot and I have jumped in both feet first: we’ve acquired a room in a small hotel on the beachfront, rented a scooter, and partaken in several yoga classes (Mom, by the time you read this, we will have returned the scooter). We drive along the few paved roads of Northern Goa, shouting “Ciao” to everyone we pass by. Occasionally, we will yell “Cow” to the bovine pedestrians.

Speaking of large four-legged animals, we were finally able to ride an elephant yesterday. His handlers assured us that they weren’t looking for payment, only a ‘donation’ to the local temple which ended up taking a hefty bite out of our wallets. I suppose one must suffer for the sake of spirituality . . . Still, very worth it.

Yoga here has been taxing on the body, but very good for our spirits. We practiced on a wicker floor, with a wicker cieling above us supported by a large tree. On our sides, only mosquito nets. Elliot is far more flexible than I am, but by the end of practice we are both sweating profusely.

Last night after a late-evening yoga practice we traveled to the German Bakery, the one place in Goa that everyone agrees on as an excellent restaurant. We traveled through winding back-roads to get there, and in the dim light, surrounded by dark arboreal figures, I joked that we had been transported to Voodooland.

We finally found the restaurant, where we sat on the floor and were served the best chai tea I’ve ever had in my life (milk tea, ginger, cardomam . . . .) We then dined on the simple fare of fresh-caught fish in Indian curry with potatoes and salad. As we sat cross-legged and sipped our chai, a song of Indian devotional music came on the speakers, and the lamplight cast soft shadows on the table before us. The smell of Indian spices mixed with the smell of the native West Indian vegetation. I closed my eyes and thought about how odd it was, that I would travel halfway around the world just to rediscover my own five senses. That Elliot and I would leave two of the most developed and urbanized countries in the world to surround ourselves with the native elements, to wake to the sound of the ocean and to eat simply prepared meals, to feel the rain and wind on our skin and to pass wild cows ambling along the road. It makes one wonder why we would consider our societies so advanced, when so many of us willingly seek out this simpler lifestyle, if only for a while.

Tomorrow, we will return to Bombay, where we have been living like Bollywood stars. But more on that later.

Ciao!

-J. and E.

The Himalayas are Huge!

Sorry it has taken so long to post, but we are living in true Bollywood fashion here in Bombay. Playing catch-up, let me fill everyone in on our trip to Shimla earlier this week.

Shimla is a hilltown located smack dab in the middle of the Himalayas. It’s partly famous because the decision to partition India and Pakistan occurred at their town hall, and because the British Raj used the town as their summer capitol. It’s also a choice retreat for honeymoon couples and Indian vacationers, and boasts several colleges. Shimla, the town, sprawls across several horizontal layers of the mountainside. Monkeys crawl across the tin roofs and skip along power wires, while ruddy-cheeked natives call out from their bazaar stalls featuring native clothing styles. Shimla is the first place in India where we could actually remember what the cold felt like. While the sun streamed down, we could wear just our t-shirts, but when night fell we were reminded that we were on top of a mountain range.

And no mere mountain range, at that. Elliot waxed ecstatic about the properties of the light settling over the nearby ridges, frantically searching for the best vantage point from which to take his photos. He and I would joke constantly about the fact that we were in the Himalayas:

“Hey Elliot, are you having soup right now?”

“Yep.”

“Elliot, would you say that you’re having soup in the Himalayas?“

“Yes, James. I would say that.”

For dinner, we scored some Tibetan food at a small restaurant. For more information about what happened there, I recommend you read my previous post.

Aftwerwards, we went up to Jakhoo temple. Jakhoo temple is a shrine set up for the Hindu monkey-god Hanuman, who supposedly rested there during the events of the epic Ramayana. The temple is at the highest point in all of Shimla, and we found ourselves climbing for a good twenty minutes before reaching the top. At points, we would stop and stare at the lights of Shimla town below us; the sun had already set and Shimla appeared like any American town. We had to remind ourselves that Shimla looks completely unlike any American city, being so stratified into horizontal bands of housing.

We continued to climb, our friend Manbhir joking that he was going to start working out once we reached the bottom. “Superbly fit” people are supposed to make the climb within thirty minutes. We took this as a challenge, and clocked in at around 28 minutes.

Jakhoo is dedicated to the monkey-god, so it fitting that it has a lot of monkeys. They stood on the roofs, singly and in groups, watching us approach their shrine. Danish informed me that I probably shouldn’t look them in the eye, so we walked past the monkey mob like a group of gunslingers. When we reached the shrine, we took off our shoes, rang the bell, and entered. We then received a traditional Hindu blessing; the priest put water in our hands, then food. He then gave us the ‘tikka’, the recognizable red dot in the middle of our forehead. Danish and I also received a red string around our wrists. Danish continued by telling us the story of Hanuman, which was conveniently displayed in several lavishly rendered pictures.

We went back down after that, joking that our knees were going to give out from all the downhill walking. We went to sleep early that night, waking up at dawn to see the sun break over the surrounding mountain tops. Again, Elliot hunted for his photo opportunity as if it some type of small animal that goes well with onions and potatoes. Finally, we left Shimla, playing the Boston comedian Dane Cook for our Punjabi friends.

“Hey Elliot, we’re listening to Dane Cook. In the Himalayas.“

“Give it a rest, James.”

 

-J. and E.

Life’s A Party, Crash It

It’s difficult to adequately convey what has happened to us within the last couple of days.

Monday was Gurupurab, the anniversary of Guru Nanak’s birthday. On this Sikh holiday, Elliot and I embarked on a journey that has trumped anything else thus far. We began by eating dinner at the local canal with several young Sikhs, where we discussed everything from tradition, to American/Indian differences, to Punjabi agriculture, to how to correctly eat butter chicken (tip: naan is not merely bread; it is a scooping device).

We then drove around the outskirts of Ludhiana, marveling at the houses that were lit up in a style reminiscent of American Christmas. The only difference was, Americans use Christmas lights. Every light in Ludhiana was made my hand-lit oil lamps. Small lamps also floated down the river; prayer offerings from local Hindus on the occasion of the full moon. We finally ended up outside a large wedding hall.

This is where the story gets interesting.

We stepped carefully around the hall for a bit, being careful not to interfere in the festivities. After all, Elliot and I were dressed in t-shirts; I was wearing shorts. And we would never be mistaken for wedding guests, for the obvious reasons. We stood by awkwardly until the bridegroom’s procession showed up, the bridegroom himself riding a white mare. At this point, our friend Manbhir gave us a crafty look, one that spelled trouble with a capitol ‘T’. And, with Punjabi resolve, he walked towards this procession.

The next part was hard to follow, as we don’t speak Punjabi. Manbhir started speaking with a man at the front of the procession. Several other wedding guests came over, and several stared pointedly at us. We realized that Manbhir was asking if we could join the wedding procession. An older man pointed to us incredulously, then waved us over. We timidly headed towards the procession, at which point the man grabbed us both firmly by the wrist and, with drunken fervor, steered us to the head of the wedding procession.

This man turned out to be the uncle of the bridegroom, and we quickly found ourselves conspicuously and prominently featured in the wedding festivities. Wedding photographers took pictures of us as we danced an amateur bhangra. The bridegroom himself thanked us for coming to his wedding. The bridegroom’s uncle, who had become our personal advocate, introduced us to members of the family. Hundreds of people we didn’t know were staring at us as we stood in the middle of a large dance circle, jubilantly celebrating during the ceremonial entrance of the bridegroom.

Elliot completely gave himself over to the spirit of the event. I was having the time of my life as well, but I had slight reservations. In Punjabi society, Sikhs are both legally allowed and religiously mandated to carry small daggers. This meant that, at any given moment, we were surrounded by several armed men. I assumed that, at some point, another member of the family would cry ‘foul’. If that happened, they would never find our bodies. This concern was reinforced when our friend Mahesh approached us during the dance. “If you get into any trouble,” he whispered, “run for the car. I’m running the engine.”

Fortunately, the only person giving us dirty looks was the bridegroom’s aunt, who clearly disapproved of her husband’s drunken behavior. Otherwise, we were a hit. Danish postulated that we were a blessing to the wedding; other celebrations may feature dancing groups and entertainers, but this wedding had its own goras!

After the dance, a famous Punjabi photographer invited me to join him in a Potiala peg. I agreed, not knowing that a Patiala peg is an Indian term for an 90 mm shot of alcohol (an American shot is around 30 mm). Meanwhile, Elliot again enjoyed his super-gora status, taking pictures with (literally) the entire wedding band. It was soon after this that our friends asked to “talk to us for a quick moment”. Dodging crowds of gawking servers and wedding well-wishers (having received the blessing of the bridegroom’s family, we were now VIPs), we reached the car and made our escape.

Since it was the Guru’s birthday, our fun did not stop there. We spent the rest of the night firing off fireworks from the roof of our building. Our own ‘crackers’ joined the other displays going on across the town, and we helped Ludhiana celebrate in style.

Gushing with exuberance, we thanked our friend Manbhir for getting us into the wedding display. He responded with humility and restraint: “You should wash my feet and drink the water.”

At around 1:30 we went to our respective beds and fell, or rather plummeted, to sleep. At dawn, we woke up and headed to the Himalayas.

But that’s another story.

Of Women, Men-Women, and Mosquitoes

On my first day here, we were fortunate enough to see three hijras. For those of you who are unfamiliar, hijras are transvestites who form a, if not valued, then accepted part of the Indian social structure. Men who dress as women (our friend Manbhir assured us that all hijras are eunuchs), they show up at Indian social events and dance until paid to depart. The hijras are endowed with a certain folkloric power; if you displease them, they curse you, while if you please them they have the power to bless you. On the subway to the center of the city, one of the hijras was giving me a beckoning eye. I’m pretty sure that counts as a blessing. If so, it is arguably the strangest blessing I have ever received.

We are catching the eye of not only Indian transvestites, but some Indian women as well (we are proud to announce). As of this moment, I am still quite jetlagged, but I will have you know: a curious glance from a dark-eyed young woman in a brightly colored sari will do more to wake you up than the strongest cup of coffee. Our good friend Danishbhir (Danish; not pronounced like the pastry) has informed us of when women were talking about the “goras” behind our backs. But we’re getting fairly good at figuring that out for ourselves. Gora means “fair skinned”, and Elliot has discovered that it’s an easy word to hear in an otherwise impenetrable sentence. Several times he’s remarked on hearing young girls loudly exclaim “Gora!!” as we walk by.

Elliot has also been especially popular with another subset of the Indian population: namely, the mosquitoes. His right arm is covered in bites; I wryly joke that he’s “the flavor of the month.” We also threaten to leave him in a leper colony if he gets any worse. Elliot replies that if he contracts leprosy, he’s taking me with him. But in all seriousness, it is odd that mosquitos seem to gravitate to him; my “Flavor of the Month theory is currently our best explanation.

Namaste, Salaam, Sat-Sri-Akal,

 -James and Elliot