It’s been a week in Bagalkot, north Karnataka, a district bordering Maharashtra. It’s a rural area and the landscape of gentle sloping hills, perspective of so much sky and land, reminds me of Ganeshpuri, a village in Thane. People at peace with themselves, and walking with a confident stride.
People walk a lot in the villages so they look so much more healthy and agile. And of course, no sign of the computer-related illnesses here that all of us in the cities are falling prey to. Young people complaining of back pain and joint pain.
The air is so pure and pollution free, no noise. From my hotel – a fairly decent newly built one -- I can hear the roar of the bus once in a while on the road a few meters away. I have been pretty much in the hotel helping out local field researchers working on AIDS create some communication materials. I went to Nirlakere village the other day with Ambika – just like that. She did the talking, I was just listening and since I don’t understand Kannada that doesnt add up to much. Ambika would stop to translate once in a while.
We were meeting Vidya, a 24-year-old widow who belongs to the village and has been working in five villages in the area for the last four years as a link worker with an AIDS prevention project. We were sitting in Panchayat office a small building with three rooms. We also met some Gram Panchayat members, who has part of the Village Health Committee, were also playing an active role in AIDS response.
The village exudes quietitude. I could hear the pre-noon village sounds -- moo of the cow, the cock-a-doodle-doo of the rooster, jingling of cowbells. And then the schoolbell! The primary school was just nextdoor and it was time for mid-day meal so all the children came running out, playing, collecting at our window to examine the ‘new’ people who had entered their village. They touched the car, looked at themselves in the mirror, and laughed easily.
As I stepped out, I saw them being served lunch – it looked like khichadi. Some were sitting lining the corridor others were sitting on the parapet of the school wall making quite a pretty picture holding their aluminium plates and eating mouthfuls with their hands. I took a picture of a nice chubby boy, who must be 5. The kids saw the camera and came running. I obliged, took some more pictures. They loved it. So beautiful – children are so curious – they are attracted by anything new and unfamiliar. They want to know, touch, feel.
Vidya was wearing a sari, the middle-aged Panchayat men dhoti kurta. It was nice to be in a place which seemed removed from globalisation. So nice to hear people speak their language in their dialect; wear costume woven in the place. So we can look at it and say – okay, this is from this land.
So different from us in the cities – we can wear a Kanjivaram one day, sport a Pune weave the other. And yet, if you consider urban India – at least in the upper middle class – the sari is becoming fast extinct. The grace of the garment is unable to match the convenience of trousers, skirts, and salwar kameez. Young women across the metros will probably wear the same brands from the same stores.
Coming from a place where a person’s attire hardly tells you where he’s from, it was interesting to be in a place which seemed removed from globalisation as we know it. Reminds me of what Pico Iyer says in his book “Global Soul’ – all this globalisation has resulted in the mongrel soul – we are a mix of so many things. We eat the same food, wear the same clothes. The language we speak today is similar across – thanks to the email and internet. Even our English is no longer the Indian English which would have been in the pre-internet days.
In my hotel, which was built only last year, I get all the creature comforts. The place is running and bustling – perhaps because this is a trading center for the local crops of sugarcane, sunflower. And there’s multicuisine on offer – Chinese, North Indian, pao bhaji and bhelpuri, and of course South Indian. Is interesting – we asked for Chinese crispy vegetable the other day – we are determined to try everything on the menu over our 10-day stay – and we got vegetable pakoda! We also tried the samosa – which was also an imitation of our north Indian version. Ask for something – not quite sure what will come! This is fun – aren’t we glad for no Macdonalds!
Bagalkot is an interesting place to study community response to AIDS. I am here to develop some communication materials for a Project on AIDS that has done considerable work in the area over the last five years. It was established with the help of Canadian funding, and is now managed with USAID support. It’s a border district where a lot of cross migration takes place. People come in when its harvest, go out to other districts rest of the year to work as agricultural labour. This is a drought prone area. Many of those who migrate are the landless labourers. Culturally, this place has been a center for the devadasi tradition. Earlier, the tradition may have been something else, today it is nothing but prostitution. A practice banned by the Government under a 1982 Act, the youngest devadasis we met were in their early 20s. They would have been dedicated 10-12 years ago.
What a tradition – breaks all concepts of what you consider acceptable. Most of them come from the SC community. There will be extreme poverty, father will be an alcoholic, no food, so the daughter will be dedicated to goddess Yellama while she’s still under 10. The ceremony is like a marriage. The girl wear a tali – which is like a mangalsutra – and identifies her as a devadasi. She is also called nitya sumangali because she can never become a widow. Can you beat that -- married to God.
Just as she attains puberty she will be ‘initiated’ into selling sex. The initiation is quite a hyped event. A man among the rich and powerful in the village, will be invited to ‘have’ the girl. A lot of pomp and show will happen, money will change hands.
Socioculturally, the devadasi is an interesting concept. The devadasi has a certain place in society so as long as she doesn’t disturb the fabric too much, she can live reasonably well. Unlike the ‘hidden’ sex worker who must do it secretly, hide from family, she doesn’t face any self stigma, guilt etc. She has resigned herself to her fate. Most adult devadasi women are not bitter – they say well, this is the way it is, not something I can change. But of course, they don’t want they daughters to lead a life like theirs. Most of them are spending a lot of money in educating children, sending them for higher studies, training in professional courses such as nursing.
The devadasi lives in her home with her parents, brothers and sisters and will practice out of her house in a room reserved for this. She can never marry – she is married already – but she can have children. Children will not get father’s name or any right to family property etc.
So in a way, she is the modern single mother. Fends for herself and her children.
I thought about it – of course everyone knows men go out for sex. But this kind of socially acknowledges this. Married women will not be available. Therefore, create a section of women for this role who cannot marry and are hence ‘free’. Sex no strings attached.
Sometimes I think the modern single woman is in a parallel danger. Women don’t like us because they know men will go out and only single women will be ‘free’. So they see us as a constant threat. And its true – most extramarital romances are with single women. The man is happy – no strings attached, the woman so taken in by the man’s power, wealth.
My understanding from this is that in today’s world the men-women relationships we build must be entirely free of economy. A woman needs to ensure she’s not financially dependent and the man needs to know that. Where a relationship’s foundation is money, it implies unequal relationships, losing freedom, liable to be abused and exploited.
In a world of AIDS, such is the wisdom I have gathered after working in this area over the last eight years.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Vishakhapatnam – Mountain and Sea
What an exciting train ride it was from Puri to Vizag. The train is cancelled because of heavy rains. A six-hour journey ends up twice as much and it we reach destination by midnight.
From Puri, with me for company are some college boys and girls from a neighbouring village who travel to and fro everyday. There are about five boys in the compartment age barely 18-20. One of them sitting next to me insists on the occasional ‘accidental’ brush even though the whole berth is empty. Finally, I pounce at him. He apologises indifferently. I pounce again – not enough to say sorry, you need to be aware. All the boys apologise and the rest begin to make conversation – where are you from and where are you going. The boy in question looks sheepish and does not utter a word. They are impressed when I tell them I work in the media in Delhi. They get off at the next station.
At the next station the train is cancelled as tracks ahead are broken due to heavy rain. We are told to hop onto another train which is following. The Guwahati-Secunderabad train arrives, I park myself at the first empty seat I see. With me for company is an Assamese young man and some middle-aged Assamese men and women. A young Marwari couple who have also hopped onto the train join us.
The Assamese young man is into IT, travelling to Hyderabad for a job interview. After two days of being in the train, he is bored. The Marwaris belong to Kolkata, went to Puri for darshan and are headed to Vizag where they now live and do business. The woman, barely 20, says she misses Kolkata – ‘Vizag doesn’t have chaat’; she doesn’t speak Telugu but that is no problem because she only goes out with her husband who speaks Telugu. Her husband cannot hide his shock at my single status – how and why, he wants to know. His wife wants to know if I have brothers and sisters, if they are married, and if they have children and looks evidently relieved when I say, yes. An 18-year-old engineering student from Bhubaneswar is headed back home to Vizag for Diwali on a surprise visit. Barely three months out of home, first time away from home, he says he misses home food in the hostel. I happily empathise with him when he complains about the blandness of Oriya food. ‘Andhra food is so spicy and you must sample the variety of mithais here,’ he says.
By the time we reach Vizag, it is close to 11 in the night. The student helps me find an auto; it is scary ride to the YMCA – the roads are dark and there is no traffic. Thankfully, I have a booking. The white bedsheets look as inviting as ever and I sleep like a log.
Next morning, the breakfast table at the YMCA restaurant gives me a gorgeous view of the sea. Add to that a table, chair, pen and paper, fair amount of silence, coffee – it does not get any better to fuel inspiration!
From one place to the next, it has only got better. From home I land at the Ramakrishna Mission and fall in love with it completely. My room at home isn't as perfectly suited to my needs as this: A bed, a couch, a study table, two chairs (one for clothes), a cupboard, bed headstands such that I can be in bed and read, enough space to spread out my Yoga mat. A window, a clean attached bathroom, a phone. In Sunita's house in Kolkata, loved the décor, the comfort, the colour. After Spartan RMIC, this was restful and aesthetic. In Puri, the almost 180oC view of the sea from the balcony made up for everything else – cramped room, run-down place. In Vizag at the YMCA, the room is wonderfully airy and spacious, on the third floor with a balcony, from where I get to see the sea across the road.
There is a time of the day for everything. Nature sets the rules and also abides by them. The magical moment of daybreak when a sudden coolness envelops and we know night has ended and day has begun. To be one with the mysterious magnetic forces at play at dawn is to know one precious moment that seems to contain much. Like birth and death, daybreak is one precious, potent, moment. The morning sun of hard work, energy, learning. Time for work. The noon sun indicating time for pause. The sultriness of the afternoon, the silence of dusk, followed by the magic of a velvety night.
Exploring Vizag on day one I decide to roam around a market. The woman receptionist at YMCA sends me to the equivalent of Lajpat Nagar. What a disappointment. I am not the shopper, I am the window shopper looking for the nice hang-out place with a bit of character.
Meanwhile, it's been a day of turmoil back home in Delhi. I first come to know about bomb blasts in Delhi, train accident in Andhra Pradesh, from Dana's SMS. I am scared, I also understand the importance of information. I have no idea about the details; confined to my room, I don't even want to come out. All of previous days chattering in the train has exhausted me completely. Catch the news on the radio on my cell just in time to know what I need to know: They targeted the high density areas bustling with pre-Diwali shoppers at peak evening time. A definite attempt to kill the festivities. In terms of television time, once again they get the maximum.
The next day, Lucknowite friend Bobby says he was 100 metres from the Paharganj blast site. ‘Don't know what kept that life saving distance,’ he says. Got to see television visuals of relatives fighting over bodies charred beyond recognition. These were obviously very gruesome. In Vizag, everything is peaceful. Delhi is nerve centre that is why they choose that – attack at the nerve center and you paralyse the nation.
A day or two later newspapers reports say things are resuming normalcy in Delhi, people want to show they will not be intimidated and are back on the streets. Similar to what television said post the London bombings last July. I am not so convinced about this theory somehow, at least in case of Delhi. A newspaper quotes a spiritual leader (Ravi Shankar) that this return to normalcy so quickly is worrisome – it is not a sign of courage but of lack of empathy – that if something doesn’t affect you directly, life goes on.
Vizag is a port city and a major naval headquarters. The Kurusawa Submarine alongside the beach road has been converted into a museum. Such immense education to be able to see what a real submarine looks like from inside, learn how it works, get a sense of how it must be for sailors on board. Apparently, this museum is the only one of its kind in India and perhaps the second in South Asia after Singapore.
Enter Andhra and the food turns hot as ever. The spicy sambhar, chutneys, pickle, tamarind. You cannot go wrong with the idli and dosa and coffee in the south. I got to sample the famous hyderabadi baigan too. There is the Hot Chips store that sells all kinds of chips – from banana to jackfruit and various kinds of potato chips –chili, tomato, mint, ginger, you name it. The custard apple is excellent here and very cheap too.
After small-town Puri, I am glad to find Pizza Corner and Café Coffee Day. And why are pilgrim towns so lacking in infrastructure. According to Lonely Planet, Puri has the pilgrim, the Bengali traveler and the Western tourist and they rarely cross paths. Excellent observation, and since I belong to neither of the three groups I found myself at a loose end.
The backpacks become conversation pieces. In the train, the Assamese young man said he thought I was from the Army and it intimidated him. Then as we were to alight, the whole compartment watched me strap it on in wonder. Probably because backpacks are unusual here, we don’t see Indians using them often, much less Indian women. Even the day backpack singled me out. An old man on the Vizag beach road said – ‘Madam are you a foreigner?’ No sir, Indian. ‘You speak Telugu?’ No sir, Hindi. And then, why are you here, how long, where are you staying, are you married, do you have children, and the rest of it. Yes, yes, I said, in this case not because it was unsafe in anyway, but just that I learnt that people like ‘regular’ people, they don't like the odds. So lying has begun to come easy. I decide to give the day backpack the go by and choose a more traditional bag instead.
Trust Café Coffee day never to let us down – iced tea, couch to sink into, and a decent toilet. Add to that local newspapers. A good coffee shop must have a view and natural light else it is no good. All the CCDs score on that. Interesting speaking to the partner of the Café – a 30-something man who says business is picking up – people are still getting used to the Rs 35 per cup coffee when the regular joint charges Rs 5. It seems popular with the young people, though.
Back home, Andhraite friends had recommended the Araku valley and the Borra caves as a must-visit so I make that trip. The Valley is beautiful, the Borra caves nice and spooky, the stalagmites and stalactites bringing alive geography lessons from school. But I am tired. I notice the mind is exhausted by the ‘sensory overdose’ and I need a break. Perhaps it also has to do with spending a lonesome Diwali and the bad news from hometown Delhi. Mum and Dad cancel their plan to join me in Pondicherry, trains to Chennai are getting cancelled as heavy rains continue. So I decide to take a break and head to Delhi.
When Akshay spoke of watching the moon and the spirits, it sounded a bit looney. Now I can see it so clearly. Waxing moon – energy builds, full moon – energy at its fullest, waning moon, waning spirits. No moon – exhausted. Counting Ganeshpuri and Lucknow prior to Kolkata, it's been a month on the road. The fatigue is beginning to set in. Until the outside becomes a reason for the inside, it has no meaning. Great to be homeward bound – two days in the train. Home is rest, back to the familiar. Sometimes we long for the new; at other times we yearn for the cocoon. Outside, there must be constant mindfulness; at home, we chill.
From Puri, with me for company are some college boys and girls from a neighbouring village who travel to and fro everyday. There are about five boys in the compartment age barely 18-20. One of them sitting next to me insists on the occasional ‘accidental’ brush even though the whole berth is empty. Finally, I pounce at him. He apologises indifferently. I pounce again – not enough to say sorry, you need to be aware. All the boys apologise and the rest begin to make conversation – where are you from and where are you going. The boy in question looks sheepish and does not utter a word. They are impressed when I tell them I work in the media in Delhi. They get off at the next station.
At the next station the train is cancelled as tracks ahead are broken due to heavy rain. We are told to hop onto another train which is following. The Guwahati-Secunderabad train arrives, I park myself at the first empty seat I see. With me for company is an Assamese young man and some middle-aged Assamese men and women. A young Marwari couple who have also hopped onto the train join us.
The Assamese young man is into IT, travelling to Hyderabad for a job interview. After two days of being in the train, he is bored. The Marwaris belong to Kolkata, went to Puri for darshan and are headed to Vizag where they now live and do business. The woman, barely 20, says she misses Kolkata – ‘Vizag doesn’t have chaat’; she doesn’t speak Telugu but that is no problem because she only goes out with her husband who speaks Telugu. Her husband cannot hide his shock at my single status – how and why, he wants to know. His wife wants to know if I have brothers and sisters, if they are married, and if they have children and looks evidently relieved when I say, yes. An 18-year-old engineering student from Bhubaneswar is headed back home to Vizag for Diwali on a surprise visit. Barely three months out of home, first time away from home, he says he misses home food in the hostel. I happily empathise with him when he complains about the blandness of Oriya food. ‘Andhra food is so spicy and you must sample the variety of mithais here,’ he says.
By the time we reach Vizag, it is close to 11 in the night. The student helps me find an auto; it is scary ride to the YMCA – the roads are dark and there is no traffic. Thankfully, I have a booking. The white bedsheets look as inviting as ever and I sleep like a log.
Next morning, the breakfast table at the YMCA restaurant gives me a gorgeous view of the sea. Add to that a table, chair, pen and paper, fair amount of silence, coffee – it does not get any better to fuel inspiration!
From one place to the next, it has only got better. From home I land at the Ramakrishna Mission and fall in love with it completely. My room at home isn't as perfectly suited to my needs as this: A bed, a couch, a study table, two chairs (one for clothes), a cupboard, bed headstands such that I can be in bed and read, enough space to spread out my Yoga mat. A window, a clean attached bathroom, a phone. In Sunita's house in Kolkata, loved the décor, the comfort, the colour. After Spartan RMIC, this was restful and aesthetic. In Puri, the almost 180oC view of the sea from the balcony made up for everything else – cramped room, run-down place. In Vizag at the YMCA, the room is wonderfully airy and spacious, on the third floor with a balcony, from where I get to see the sea across the road.
There is a time of the day for everything. Nature sets the rules and also abides by them. The magical moment of daybreak when a sudden coolness envelops and we know night has ended and day has begun. To be one with the mysterious magnetic forces at play at dawn is to know one precious moment that seems to contain much. Like birth and death, daybreak is one precious, potent, moment. The morning sun of hard work, energy, learning. Time for work. The noon sun indicating time for pause. The sultriness of the afternoon, the silence of dusk, followed by the magic of a velvety night.
Exploring Vizag on day one I decide to roam around a market. The woman receptionist at YMCA sends me to the equivalent of Lajpat Nagar. What a disappointment. I am not the shopper, I am the window shopper looking for the nice hang-out place with a bit of character.
Meanwhile, it's been a day of turmoil back home in Delhi. I first come to know about bomb blasts in Delhi, train accident in Andhra Pradesh, from Dana's SMS. I am scared, I also understand the importance of information. I have no idea about the details; confined to my room, I don't even want to come out. All of previous days chattering in the train has exhausted me completely. Catch the news on the radio on my cell just in time to know what I need to know: They targeted the high density areas bustling with pre-Diwali shoppers at peak evening time. A definite attempt to kill the festivities. In terms of television time, once again they get the maximum.
The next day, Lucknowite friend Bobby says he was 100 metres from the Paharganj blast site. ‘Don't know what kept that life saving distance,’ he says. Got to see television visuals of relatives fighting over bodies charred beyond recognition. These were obviously very gruesome. In Vizag, everything is peaceful. Delhi is nerve centre that is why they choose that – attack at the nerve center and you paralyse the nation.
A day or two later newspapers reports say things are resuming normalcy in Delhi, people want to show they will not be intimidated and are back on the streets. Similar to what television said post the London bombings last July. I am not so convinced about this theory somehow, at least in case of Delhi. A newspaper quotes a spiritual leader (Ravi Shankar) that this return to normalcy so quickly is worrisome – it is not a sign of courage but of lack of empathy – that if something doesn’t affect you directly, life goes on.
Vizag is a port city and a major naval headquarters. The Kurusawa Submarine alongside the beach road has been converted into a museum. Such immense education to be able to see what a real submarine looks like from inside, learn how it works, get a sense of how it must be for sailors on board. Apparently, this museum is the only one of its kind in India and perhaps the second in South Asia after Singapore.
Enter Andhra and the food turns hot as ever. The spicy sambhar, chutneys, pickle, tamarind. You cannot go wrong with the idli and dosa and coffee in the south. I got to sample the famous hyderabadi baigan too. There is the Hot Chips store that sells all kinds of chips – from banana to jackfruit and various kinds of potato chips –chili, tomato, mint, ginger, you name it. The custard apple is excellent here and very cheap too.
After small-town Puri, I am glad to find Pizza Corner and Café Coffee Day. And why are pilgrim towns so lacking in infrastructure. According to Lonely Planet, Puri has the pilgrim, the Bengali traveler and the Western tourist and they rarely cross paths. Excellent observation, and since I belong to neither of the three groups I found myself at a loose end.
The backpacks become conversation pieces. In the train, the Assamese young man said he thought I was from the Army and it intimidated him. Then as we were to alight, the whole compartment watched me strap it on in wonder. Probably because backpacks are unusual here, we don’t see Indians using them often, much less Indian women. Even the day backpack singled me out. An old man on the Vizag beach road said – ‘Madam are you a foreigner?’ No sir, Indian. ‘You speak Telugu?’ No sir, Hindi. And then, why are you here, how long, where are you staying, are you married, do you have children, and the rest of it. Yes, yes, I said, in this case not because it was unsafe in anyway, but just that I learnt that people like ‘regular’ people, they don't like the odds. So lying has begun to come easy. I decide to give the day backpack the go by and choose a more traditional bag instead.
Trust Café Coffee day never to let us down – iced tea, couch to sink into, and a decent toilet. Add to that local newspapers. A good coffee shop must have a view and natural light else it is no good. All the CCDs score on that. Interesting speaking to the partner of the Café – a 30-something man who says business is picking up – people are still getting used to the Rs 35 per cup coffee when the regular joint charges Rs 5. It seems popular with the young people, though.
Back home, Andhraite friends had recommended the Araku valley and the Borra caves as a must-visit so I make that trip. The Valley is beautiful, the Borra caves nice and spooky, the stalagmites and stalactites bringing alive geography lessons from school. But I am tired. I notice the mind is exhausted by the ‘sensory overdose’ and I need a break. Perhaps it also has to do with spending a lonesome Diwali and the bad news from hometown Delhi. Mum and Dad cancel their plan to join me in Pondicherry, trains to Chennai are getting cancelled as heavy rains continue. So I decide to take a break and head to Delhi.
When Akshay spoke of watching the moon and the spirits, it sounded a bit looney. Now I can see it so clearly. Waxing moon – energy builds, full moon – energy at its fullest, waning moon, waning spirits. No moon – exhausted. Counting Ganeshpuri and Lucknow prior to Kolkata, it's been a month on the road. The fatigue is beginning to set in. Until the outside becomes a reason for the inside, it has no meaning. Great to be homeward bound – two days in the train. Home is rest, back to the familiar. Sometimes we long for the new; at other times we yearn for the cocoon. Outside, there must be constant mindfulness; at home, we chill.
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Down the East Coast – Puri
Puri – Temple Town in the East
In Kolkata, the trip to Sunderbans with Soma had to be cancelled because of bad weather. People advise against going to Digha due to heavy rains. Would have been nice to go to Kharagpur -- so much a part of Dad's life. The university town of Shantiniketan is on vacation until Diwali. So, I head to Puri.
That's the beauty of wandering. You plan, there are things you want to do, and yet nothing is cast in stone. The path sort of paves its own way. There is joy in discovering the path. The surprise element is very joyful. So I am not disappointed when we return from the tourist office in Kolkata, backpacks and all, when Sunderbans is cancelled. Soma is disappointed. She finds my irreprisible spirit irritating -- 'this is all because of the yoga and meditation you do,' she grumbles good-naturedly. We head instead to Flurys for a big breakfast and follow it up with browsing at the music store next door.
Travel teaches us to be in the moment. To trust the instinct which direction to head in. Of course, we take wrong turns, but everything becomes part of the journey. Because the truth is the journey is the end, the destination is just an excuse to make the journey.
Train journeys are great to explore changing topography. The morning train from Howrah takes me to Bhubaneswar. From the well branched-out tall and wide trees and coconut palms -- the lush of forest and marshland – to the shorter trees and rice fields of Orissa.
From Bhubaneswar, I take a shared auto with a young Bengali couple to Puri. I head for Puri hotel, apparently very popular and by the beach, recommended to me by an Oriya colleague. It is afternoon by the time I reach. I don’t have prior booking but I get a room. A woman travelling alone is unusual here, so I say I am a media researcher travelling on work.
The hotel room gives a breathtaking view of the sea, a stone’s throw away. I can see it, hear it, almost feel it. When I put my hand on the table I can feel the rumbling. This is a complete sensory experience. Never before have I got this chance to live by the sea. I want to do nothing except watch the sea.
After days of incessant rain in Kolkata, I am relishing the simple pleasures of laundry dried to a crisp in the sun. Very happy to see all around me people had put their balcony to good use. None of the snobbery of ‘please don’t hang clothes outside – it spoils our look’. Good old Indian middle-class, rather good old Bengali traveler. Am impressed – they come in all age groups.
Two weeks on the road and I get used to being on my own and away from home. The responsibility and mindfulness that comes with the freedom become natural. Kolkata was wonderful to observe a culture so vibrant. What a rich history – birthplace and centre for so much activity during the last century. From freedom struggle to spiritual reawakening, music and literature, Bengal has contributed much. I hear the music of the baul -- familiar, thanks to S D Burman, and I think of how much Hindi films have been my window into this culture.
Puri is strangely noisy – horns, gadgets, swings that make irritating noises. The revelers on the beach create a racket. Although this is not half as bad as what I have seen the Biharis do to Goa some years back. This picnic spot thing is weird. The sea must be revered. When adults don’t do this, we can have little hope from Gen Next.
Morning at the beach is wonderful. The sea holds such immense power. Amazing to see dispersion of the morning rays on water. To feel the sea one has to be 'in it'. Teeming millions stand on the shore, scared. They shout and scream in delight every time a wave touches their feet. They miss out on the ‘real thing’. Which is, remove shoes, carry them in a plastic bag, offer pranams to the sea and walk in the water, ankle deep, in the direction of the rising sun. Watch the play of light, listen to the music of the morning sea. That is little short of magic. The gem sellers and pearl sellers will come but they will also let you be if you don’t show any interest. A mobile chaiwala makes me excellent adrak chai in front of me. These guys beat the west coast at chai.
Watching the sea at different times of the day – early morning, noon, evening, midnight, sometimes even middle of the night – is to see it alive in every way. Listening to the sound of the sea – the waves crashing and the sound that seems to come from inside the sea, is like the nada, unstruck sound. The sea is vast, deep, constantly moving, ever changing. A woman in her 30s – youthful, energetic, with the groundedness and maturity and motherhood. One who knows love, compassion, tenderness as much as pain, anger, separation.
I decide to take a tour to the Chilka lake. So much for ambitions of dolphin watching – jumping dolphins and what not. Turns out to be all imagination – well, almost. Staring at the water, after a long while we see a black metre-long something shining below the surface. That’s it – that’s the dolphin, we are told. But the Chilka Lake is magnificent, no doubt, a fragile ecosystem that has been an area of great interest for its biodiversity.
I am reminded of the ‘penguin parade’ tour in Melbourne. Thousands of tourists gather at the beach to see a daily ritual: Thousands of six-inch high penguins return to their homes on the beach every evening. There is a conservatory and a veterinary hospital for the penguins. They have managed to sell the site as a ‘hot’ tourist destination, complete with souvenirs and photographs. The learning experience begins from the bus drive itself. The driver is the guide, we are shown a 10-mt film on the little penguin, also do’s and don’ts and also why the don’ts. Eg no photographs because the flash from so many cameras can blind the sensitive eye of the penguin.
At Chilka, there is a small research center, entry is ticketed. I wander in. Some postcards and stickers, a dolphin model where you can hear recorded sounds of the dolphin. The people there are so amazed to see me, seems they are not used to visitors and ask me more than once if I am a researcher. Half the stuff on show does not work.
It’s irritating to be a woman traveler alone here. In the bus, you are stuck with the kids because you can only be put with a woman or children and there aren’t any women travelling alone. Once again, I remember the bus tour to the penguin parade: We are four women in a row all solo travelers. At 30, I am the eldest. What a mix – a Japanese working as a waitress at a local restaurant, a Punjabi NRI from Toronto, a German on a holiday, and me, a Delhiite in Melbourne on work, using my last evening there to do some touristy stuff. As we share a dinner of pizzas, the Punjabi NRI says she is headed to Mumbai post Melbourne to meet grandparents who will probably hook her up with prospective grooms; the German says in her country people love holidaying; the Japanese who has been in Melbourne about six months is saving up to study.
Sometimes, we feel more at home in the strangest of places and at home we feel strange. At Chilka, I use the toilet at the conservatory, and that’s paisa vasool of my ticket (Rs 10) as the only other toilet is far from usable. Why don’t we have toilets at tourist places? If there’s one thing I could change about travel in India it is availability of public toilets.
On my last day, I visit the Jagannath temple with the guide from the hotel. It’s intimidating. We don’t like temples where we don't understand what's happening, and where people pounce on us for money. Yet, we believe in reigning deity of a land, much like the master of a house, so we must pay obeisance. This is the month of Kartik, supposed to be auspicious for widows. The temple hall is full of widows. Outside I can see old and destitute women begging. Heartbreaking to see that. A 30-something man sitting on an edge offers me charnamrit; I take some, and he promptly demands I place some dakshina. A punda appears from somewhere wanting to know family history. I have become so used to lying – saying I am married, even cooking up names, but here I feel I must desist, wouldn’t want to confuse my descendents.
The food in Puri is strange and over-priced so I buy a bread, go around looking for cheese – don’t find any. The place has a cyber café but they don’t seem to know cheese. Puri’s strange cuisine is probably trying to cater to the Bengali tourist but at least to the north Indian, it is a big mish-mash. I find a south Indian joint and that’s a mish mash too. I couldn’t agree more with the travel writer who says Oriya cuisine is well, for lack of a kinder word, strange. On the last day I find a Marwadi kind of vegetarian place that also has a good view of the road to the temple. Finally.
Thank God for no television – much time saved. We are the channel-flicking generation. Thank God for only one paper – tells me all I need to know. It is six years since the Orissa cyclone, papers say coastal villages are complaining that rehabilitation is not being done. Mangrove plantation, highway building has not been done as promised, only cyclone shelters – very short term measures – have been made.
By evening, the sky has darkened and the sea is turbulent. There is also some thunder and lightning. There is a pregnant uncertainty, or is it my imagination just because I read the weather forecast warning a cyclone. The rough sea is a bit frightening. In the music of the sea, this is the fast-paced raga. There is immense energy building up. The lightning lights up the sky and the sea. I have never seen nature like this. From my room the waving flags down below tell me of the wind velocity. Crowds on the beach have thinned out. No public announcement. Locals seem pretty cool. Usual?
The sea has come closer. I think of the proverbs: Storm in a tea cup, Lull before the storm. If the body is a microcosm of the universe the raging sea must also lie within.
In Kolkata, the trip to Sunderbans with Soma had to be cancelled because of bad weather. People advise against going to Digha due to heavy rains. Would have been nice to go to Kharagpur -- so much a part of Dad's life. The university town of Shantiniketan is on vacation until Diwali. So, I head to Puri.
That's the beauty of wandering. You plan, there are things you want to do, and yet nothing is cast in stone. The path sort of paves its own way. There is joy in discovering the path. The surprise element is very joyful. So I am not disappointed when we return from the tourist office in Kolkata, backpacks and all, when Sunderbans is cancelled. Soma is disappointed. She finds my irreprisible spirit irritating -- 'this is all because of the yoga and meditation you do,' she grumbles good-naturedly. We head instead to Flurys for a big breakfast and follow it up with browsing at the music store next door.
Travel teaches us to be in the moment. To trust the instinct which direction to head in. Of course, we take wrong turns, but everything becomes part of the journey. Because the truth is the journey is the end, the destination is just an excuse to make the journey.
Train journeys are great to explore changing topography. The morning train from Howrah takes me to Bhubaneswar. From the well branched-out tall and wide trees and coconut palms -- the lush of forest and marshland – to the shorter trees and rice fields of Orissa.
From Bhubaneswar, I take a shared auto with a young Bengali couple to Puri. I head for Puri hotel, apparently very popular and by the beach, recommended to me by an Oriya colleague. It is afternoon by the time I reach. I don’t have prior booking but I get a room. A woman travelling alone is unusual here, so I say I am a media researcher travelling on work.
The hotel room gives a breathtaking view of the sea, a stone’s throw away. I can see it, hear it, almost feel it. When I put my hand on the table I can feel the rumbling. This is a complete sensory experience. Never before have I got this chance to live by the sea. I want to do nothing except watch the sea.
After days of incessant rain in Kolkata, I am relishing the simple pleasures of laundry dried to a crisp in the sun. Very happy to see all around me people had put their balcony to good use. None of the snobbery of ‘please don’t hang clothes outside – it spoils our look’. Good old Indian middle-class, rather good old Bengali traveler. Am impressed – they come in all age groups.
Two weeks on the road and I get used to being on my own and away from home. The responsibility and mindfulness that comes with the freedom become natural. Kolkata was wonderful to observe a culture so vibrant. What a rich history – birthplace and centre for so much activity during the last century. From freedom struggle to spiritual reawakening, music and literature, Bengal has contributed much. I hear the music of the baul -- familiar, thanks to S D Burman, and I think of how much Hindi films have been my window into this culture.
Puri is strangely noisy – horns, gadgets, swings that make irritating noises. The revelers on the beach create a racket. Although this is not half as bad as what I have seen the Biharis do to Goa some years back. This picnic spot thing is weird. The sea must be revered. When adults don’t do this, we can have little hope from Gen Next.
Morning at the beach is wonderful. The sea holds such immense power. Amazing to see dispersion of the morning rays on water. To feel the sea one has to be 'in it'. Teeming millions stand on the shore, scared. They shout and scream in delight every time a wave touches their feet. They miss out on the ‘real thing’. Which is, remove shoes, carry them in a plastic bag, offer pranams to the sea and walk in the water, ankle deep, in the direction of the rising sun. Watch the play of light, listen to the music of the morning sea. That is little short of magic. The gem sellers and pearl sellers will come but they will also let you be if you don’t show any interest. A mobile chaiwala makes me excellent adrak chai in front of me. These guys beat the west coast at chai.
Watching the sea at different times of the day – early morning, noon, evening, midnight, sometimes even middle of the night – is to see it alive in every way. Listening to the sound of the sea – the waves crashing and the sound that seems to come from inside the sea, is like the nada, unstruck sound. The sea is vast, deep, constantly moving, ever changing. A woman in her 30s – youthful, energetic, with the groundedness and maturity and motherhood. One who knows love, compassion, tenderness as much as pain, anger, separation.
I decide to take a tour to the Chilka lake. So much for ambitions of dolphin watching – jumping dolphins and what not. Turns out to be all imagination – well, almost. Staring at the water, after a long while we see a black metre-long something shining below the surface. That’s it – that’s the dolphin, we are told. But the Chilka Lake is magnificent, no doubt, a fragile ecosystem that has been an area of great interest for its biodiversity.
I am reminded of the ‘penguin parade’ tour in Melbourne. Thousands of tourists gather at the beach to see a daily ritual: Thousands of six-inch high penguins return to their homes on the beach every evening. There is a conservatory and a veterinary hospital for the penguins. They have managed to sell the site as a ‘hot’ tourist destination, complete with souvenirs and photographs. The learning experience begins from the bus drive itself. The driver is the guide, we are shown a 10-mt film on the little penguin, also do’s and don’ts and also why the don’ts. Eg no photographs because the flash from so many cameras can blind the sensitive eye of the penguin.
At Chilka, there is a small research center, entry is ticketed. I wander in. Some postcards and stickers, a dolphin model where you can hear recorded sounds of the dolphin. The people there are so amazed to see me, seems they are not used to visitors and ask me more than once if I am a researcher. Half the stuff on show does not work.
It’s irritating to be a woman traveler alone here. In the bus, you are stuck with the kids because you can only be put with a woman or children and there aren’t any women travelling alone. Once again, I remember the bus tour to the penguin parade: We are four women in a row all solo travelers. At 30, I am the eldest. What a mix – a Japanese working as a waitress at a local restaurant, a Punjabi NRI from Toronto, a German on a holiday, and me, a Delhiite in Melbourne on work, using my last evening there to do some touristy stuff. As we share a dinner of pizzas, the Punjabi NRI says she is headed to Mumbai post Melbourne to meet grandparents who will probably hook her up with prospective grooms; the German says in her country people love holidaying; the Japanese who has been in Melbourne about six months is saving up to study.
Sometimes, we feel more at home in the strangest of places and at home we feel strange. At Chilka, I use the toilet at the conservatory, and that’s paisa vasool of my ticket (Rs 10) as the only other toilet is far from usable. Why don’t we have toilets at tourist places? If there’s one thing I could change about travel in India it is availability of public toilets.
On my last day, I visit the Jagannath temple with the guide from the hotel. It’s intimidating. We don’t like temples where we don't understand what's happening, and where people pounce on us for money. Yet, we believe in reigning deity of a land, much like the master of a house, so we must pay obeisance. This is the month of Kartik, supposed to be auspicious for widows. The temple hall is full of widows. Outside I can see old and destitute women begging. Heartbreaking to see that. A 30-something man sitting on an edge offers me charnamrit; I take some, and he promptly demands I place some dakshina. A punda appears from somewhere wanting to know family history. I have become so used to lying – saying I am married, even cooking up names, but here I feel I must desist, wouldn’t want to confuse my descendents.
The food in Puri is strange and over-priced so I buy a bread, go around looking for cheese – don’t find any. The place has a cyber café but they don’t seem to know cheese. Puri’s strange cuisine is probably trying to cater to the Bengali tourist but at least to the north Indian, it is a big mish-mash. I find a south Indian joint and that’s a mish mash too. I couldn’t agree more with the travel writer who says Oriya cuisine is well, for lack of a kinder word, strange. On the last day I find a Marwadi kind of vegetarian place that also has a good view of the road to the temple. Finally.
Thank God for no television – much time saved. We are the channel-flicking generation. Thank God for only one paper – tells me all I need to know. It is six years since the Orissa cyclone, papers say coastal villages are complaining that rehabilitation is not being done. Mangrove plantation, highway building has not been done as promised, only cyclone shelters – very short term measures – have been made.
By evening, the sky has darkened and the sea is turbulent. There is also some thunder and lightning. There is a pregnant uncertainty, or is it my imagination just because I read the weather forecast warning a cyclone. The rough sea is a bit frightening. In the music of the sea, this is the fast-paced raga. There is immense energy building up. The lightning lights up the sky and the sea. I have never seen nature like this. From my room the waving flags down below tell me of the wind velocity. Crowds on the beach have thinned out. No public announcement. Locals seem pretty cool. Usual?
The sea has come closer. I think of the proverbs: Storm in a tea cup, Lull before the storm. If the body is a microcosm of the universe the raging sea must also lie within.
Kolkata By Durga Puja
Streetscape Kolkata
If Gaumukh and Gangotri is the mouth of Ganga, Kolkata is surely feet of Ganga. Puja celebrations are at their peak as I fly into Kolkata one late October evening. From the airport to the city is an enchanting drive. Past 10 in the night, the air is filled with festivity – music, colour, lights. And of course, lots of people. Puja pandals stand on both sides of the road. Even from a distance, this is unlike something I have seen before. Soma, my local buddy, has warned me of crazy traffic. ‘Roads may be blocked and you may have to walk part of the way,’ she says. But it’s a smooth drive and the traffic not too bad for what is famous for Kolkata. At the Ramakrishna Mission Scholars hostel at Gol Park, heart of town, I am given a neat, functional room on the first floor overlooking a busy street.
People at home have sent me off with two credit cards, two cell phones. However, wonder of wonders, I find I cannot make a call from either. So I troop down to the street to become one with the crowds below. Close to 11 and it’s as busy as it can be with men, women, children, dressed in their best, walking with a purpose in their step. Buses are running, foodstalls doing brisk business. Calls over, as I head back I feel happy and safe, easily merging in the crowds to become unnoticeable. This is a remarkably welcoming and inclusive feeling – as though the streets are ours and each one of us has an equal right to be here and celebrate the coming of the Devi. Back home, people had said the eastern part of the country shows greater respect for women probably because they worship the mother goddess. Whatever be the reason, this Delhiite is pleasantly surprised at the contrast. No ‘question mark looks’ – who are you, why are you here, whom are you with. Back in my room I watch the street for a while from my first floor window. It is past one by the time I knock off, lulled to sleep by the sound of traffic.
The next morning I start my day with the Guru Gita and Hatha Yoga – I am determined to make this a daily practice. Breakfast is at the dining hall. It’s an odd mix of people – Westerners, Japanese, Indians from different parts of the country, and of course, the Great Bengali. Breakfast is cornflakes, eggs on order, the famous Bengali veg roll, toast. To be served on the table by liveried middle-aged waiters has that old world charm.
The city is on holiday; all markets and offices are shut. People make time out once a year to set work aside, celebrate the presence of the Devi among them. Truly a community festival, it includes everyone – unlike Diwali in the north which is essentially a family festival. Now I know why the Bengali colleague must always take off on Puja – truly, who can stay away from a celebration and family reunion such as this.
On my own, with no fixed ‘agenda’ I feel free – the world is my playing field. Through this journey, the idea is not to fill up with too many things, but to assimilate, make sense of what I already know. As a wanderer, I let myself be ‘guided by the spirit’. Not important how many days I travel, how many kilometers I cover, but to constantly learn and experience every moment of the journey. I come with the blessings of so many people. Blessings empower us, like a gentle yet strong hand on my back pushing me forward as though to say: Go, may you find what you seek.
If travel abroad makes us cling to precious pounds and francs, in India it does the opposite. Suddenly, as though buying power increases multifold. The needle and thread for Rs 3 at Ganeshpuri the previous week was the minimum value thing I had purchased in a long while. Until the chai in Kolkata – a tiny little mitti cup for Rs 1.50. Two cups, total cost Rs 3. Looking for tea one afternoon, I walked down the street hoping I would find a Café Coffee Day or a Barista. Markets and shops shut, I found a cyber café, but no café. Just the bustling pavement chaishops. Back in the north, perhaps not the done thing to do, but here, I stopped at a teashop run by two women. Mother and daughter? Or mother-in-law, daughter-in-law possibly. The young woman, around 25, looked a smart entrepreneur. Sipping excellent tea by the road I notice the pedestrian is king: Roads have been blocked to make way for people as they go socializing, pandal hopping. There is the sizzle of streetfood – egg roll, mutton roll, egg pakoda and all the rest of it, there are the namkeen sellers and the fruit sellers – a kharbooja that looks like a big kheera.
A small-frame girl, about 25, approaches me with great dignity and sells me a booklet on Subhash Chandra Bose. First I thought – the Church types. I stopped because I was wandering anyway. A wanderer has an open mind and an open heart – who knows what will lead to what. She said she works with a publishing house that brings out cheaply priced books on leaders and by regional writers specially aimed at educating young people. Also on offer are books by Hindi writer Premchand.
Back in my room late evening, the street by night continues to hold attention. I feel like a Maya Memsaab peering down from my first floor window. This year Puja, normally lasting 4-5 days, is condensed into three. The Bengalis look determined to pack the three days with high intensity. The immersion processions have begun. Leading the idol are men – beating drums, playing the clappers, waving the dhoop. The power of the drum beat is unlike anything I have heard before. I am mesmerized.
Everywhere, the Devi looks awesome – majestic, compassionate, bejewelled. Sunita and family, wonderful Kolkata friends, take me pandal hopping one night. One pandal is a replica of an Orissan temple, another on yoga and meditation is designed like a cave. Exhibition design of a unique kind. So much effort goes into creating each pandal, it is difficult to imagine it is just for a few days. Living art as worship at its best. The impermanence of the art lends it a prayer-like quality. Like the rangoli and the kollam cleaned away each morning and made afresh, the Devi will be immersed, the pandal dismantled and made new next year. Preparations will begin almost six months in advance.
The Bengali believes during this time Durga descends on earth. The priest does the prana pratishtha and the clay idol becomes infused with the soul of the Devi. Towards the end of the festival the soul is released, the idol becomes a doll, and is immersed in the river. Until next year, when She will come again.
The Navratri is a very sacred time, more so for women I think. We are honouring the feminine force, Prakriti. In doing so, we honour our own divinity and feminity. We understand that the nature of woman is compassion, beauty, victory, pride. All these virtues so very empowering that it leaves no space to feel weak or ‘powerless’ in any way. Whether it is Western India – Gujarat and Maharashtra – or the east – West Bengal, Orissa, Assam – Navratri is that time awesome time of the year when the streets and colonies will sport a renewed exuberance. It is the time of the year when the weather turns pleasant with approaching winter, when homes have been whitewashed clean, newness in the air with new clothes and new leaves. The Devi is a 30-ish woman I would say – youthful, mother, attractive, buoyant. I am that age so it makes me feel good about who I am. All the mid-30s blues vanish.
Multicultural Identity
The Scholars Hostel at the Ramakrishna Mission is full with international students. I hear someone practicing on the tabla in the room nextdoor – it’s the Japanese girl who is a student of South Asian studies. She is learning the tabla and also learning art at the College of Art. She has spent an year in Karachi, speaks fluent Urdu, says her Hindi is better than her English. Karachi was very different from here, she says. ‘You could not wear western clothes and it was very repressed for women.’
The Romanian girls are lighthearted, energetic, have a great sense of humour. Dana, who has been at the Mission 8 years, says ‘you must go to Shantinketan’. ‘Her birthplace,’ chimes in her friend, who has ‘just arrived’ – five months back. Dana has been in India 11 years, the first three she spent at Shantinekatan. When she arrived she could speak fluent Bengali and Sanskrit. A student of Sanskrit philosophy, she has done comparative study of Sanskrit with the ancient European languages, has translated the Upanishads into Romanian. A Japanese young man is here to learn Bengali language ‘so he can better understand the villages in Bengal.’ Many Japanese researchers are interested in Bengali culture, he says. A young boy from Noida is studying an MBA. Trust the north Indians to gang up: People in Kolkata are very nosey, he tells me. That’s breakfast table one morning.
The Ramakrishna Mission is very inclusive of different cultures. I read in a book by Swami Ranganathananda that every culture is an experiment, therefore no culture can be perfect, and hence the need, more so in today’s times, for cultures to learn from each other. With characteristic gracefulness the Japanese wished me a great journey: ‘I hope you have a great trip, I know you will – you have very curious eyes.’ The students inspire me to open my eyes to the world, look at the buffet spread on offer, choose what I would like to ruminate on. I am reminded of the story my friend Sudipto once told me years ago of wildlife photographers who spent eight years in a jungle tracking a leopard cub. Such is the kind of dedication and sincerity honest work demands. No wonder then they must look at the rest of us ‘touristy types’ with some contempt.
Tourist in Kolkata
Soma, my proud Bengali host, takes me around town. At the Academy of Fine Arts, I am delighted to find the kadamba tree – something I have been searching for years. The tree has an intoxicating fragrance and a majestic form in the way it branches out. The flower is a bright yellow sphere, bigger than the table-tennis ball. Outside the St Paul’s Church, I find something similar to the molshree tree – tall and wide tree with red berries. The trees take me to childhood memories of the Arts College in Lucknow where I grew up. The campus with its Tagore statue, the ‘Thinker’ statue, kadamba and molshree trees. I think of the young men and women who would have graduated from Kolkata Arts College and Shantinekatan, even IIT Kharagpur, like my Dad, and moved to the Lucknow Arts College in the ’60s. They planted the trees they knew and loved, created sculptures of their master Tagore. People who had studied under the masters, some direct students of Tagore.
Mrs Pawar, our septagenarian artist in Lucknow, who also graduated from Shantiniketan spoke of the artist Nandalal Bose who would always carry pen and paper so he could pause and make a sketch when he saw something beautiful. To do this is, ‘nature ko pranam karna’, he would say. Mrs Pawar was also my window to the art of batik – a Shantiniketan trademark. Being here, I understand how much Bengali culture influenced my father who studied here fifty years ago. His gentle and peace loving demeanour, love for nature, immense contentment that can be mistaken for complacency, surely comes from here. This is also where I got my name – Dad named me after a professor!
Sunita and Vinodji take me to the Kalighat temple one morning. A wonderful 40-something couple I first met in the Ganeshpuri ashram a decade ago, they are light-hearted, good-humoured and very affectionate. The sturdy Punjabi spirit! Sunita heads the Punjabi division at the National Library, Vinodji is a forensic scientist with the Police. One daughter is an ace interior designer working in Pune, the second is studying fashion design in Kolkata. A family that has made Kolkata its home for over twenty years, they say they love the simplicity of the place and its people. Needless to say, they all speak fluent Bangla. Rice is my staple, says daughter Sneha.
We go to the Kalighat temple with a police escort and so we get ‘instant darshan’. Suddenly we see ourselves in front of the magnificent idol, so close, we could touch but could not see it in its entirety. I understood why the temple is designed the way it is: You enter, you approach, you bow – the time and space allows us to prepare to receive darshan of the idol. Vinodoji showed us the place where the bali is done. A little enclosure with bamboos – to tie the goat I guess. Gives me a shudder. Death to the animal is victory to the devotee? To kill the most gentle animal, tied, can hardly be called bravery. Vinodji tells us that in the pandals also the bali is done symbolically with a white pumpkin. Few temples where the animal bali tradition has been allowed to continue – most other places it has been banned thanks to animal rights activists. I am reminded of a cousin who as a schoolgirl told me she saw a television programme on animal sacrifice at Kamakhya temple, Guwahati, and turned vegetarian for good.
Soma and I do the Victoria one day. It’s a beautiful building. It’s the day our tour to Sunderbans was cancelled due to bad weather so we are carrying our backpacks. We cannot take the bags inside, we are told, and there is no place to deposit them. Man at the entry suggests we go in one at a time, one person guarding the bags outside. That is undoubtedly an extremely dumb option – but groups are doing that for lack of choice. We head to the lawns – extremely well maintained – and join the lovers on the benches at 11 am. It begins to rain, so the umbrellas come out. This must make such a funny picture – rain, lawns, umbrella, garden bench, the awesome Victoria for background – I beg Soma to let me take a pic, she says No. We dig into our picnic basket intended for Sunderbans. Finally, we must go to Sunita’s office close by – the National Library – so we can keep our bags safe and soak in the history at Victoria.
The magnificent collection of artefacts, sketches and oils, portraits, sculpture is a remarkable window into British India and the freedom struggle. But what really stayed with me is the letter Tagore wrote to the Viceroy declining knighthood in protest against the Jallianwala killings. I have seen this before at an extremely moving exhibition at Jallianwala, Amritsar, a couple of years ago on Baisakhi day, the anniversary of the massacre. Somehow, here, to be able to read the letter almost for real it has a very moving impact.
At the National Library we see the first published newspaper in India (was published from Kolkata) and the oldest books – ancient Tamil manuscripts on palmleaf, Persian books from the Mughal period, the first printed book on leather so fine it seemed like paper. ‘Made from leather from the skin of an unborn calf,’ we are told. The Hindu in me does a double-take, insides squirming. About four hundred years old, the book remains unspoilt.
The Ramakrishna Mission and Belur Math
We hire a car one day and Soma takes me to Belur Math and Dakshineswar. A former journalist colleague from Pioneer, Soma is an avid reader, film and television critic. A single woman in her 40s, she lives with her parents, does freelance writing assignments and is researching a novel set in the Mughal period. Belur is an hour’s drive away, we also get to cross the famous new bridge which is an engineering feat and a visual delight. Soma tells me the Howrah bridge was made by the British in … and took … years to build, the new bridge was built in … and took .. years to build.
Belur Math, which is the global headquarters of the Ramakrishna Movement, has its main temple dedicated to Ramakrishna Paramhansa. The temple façade draws symbols from the different major religions of the world. There is a large temple hall where people meditate during the day and Arti is sung every evening. The Math has shrines dedicated to Ramakrishna’s wife Sharada Devi, and his disciples Vivekananda and Brahmananda. The place where the first twelve monks who were Ramakrishna’s disciples were cremated has been marked, also the space where the monks are cremated now. Just by the Ganga, the Belur Math has the silence of maun darshan in Gurudev Siddha Peeth. There are people, music, sounds, but no conversation. In the complete silence we honour something and someone. Silence takes us inward so quickly. To be silent is to quieten the chatter of the mind. Not for anything it has been said, for the heart to listen to God, it must be in silence.
It strikes me that travel is about recognizing, pehchaan. In Kolkata, I recognize the trees I have known as a child; recognize the silence at Belur similar to Gurudev Siddha Peeth. And what does it make me feel – the joy of seeing a familiar face where one least expects it. Or perhaps the joy of meeting family we have not met before – as though we are connected and our destinies are inter-linked in some mysterious way.
The Belur museum is a labour of love. We walk around it on the outside to see history of India down the ages depicted through relief sculptures. On the inside, the museum tells of the history of the Ramakrishna movement, recreates the past, and showcases original artefacts. It leaves me completely inspired – not just by the greatness of the movement but also the pride with which the story has been told. Very rare to see museums and exhibitions so well conceived and implemented. There is an entrance fee of Rs 3: Small enough to ensure access to all, prevent hangers-on.
The next evening I am at the Belur Math again, this time thanks to Dana. There is time for the evening Arti, she needs to use the hostel toilet so I proceed to sit by the banks of the Ganga. As a full moon rises over the water, I chant the mantra Om Namah Shivaya silently to myself. Families on the steps are doing the regular touristy stuff like taking pictures. Some men, even old women are taking a dip. Our India – so special, so beautiful. The Jnaneshwar Maharaj quote comes to mind – Jahan vichar thama jaate hain, jahan buddhi kaam nahi aati, use jnana kehte hain. ‘That space where no thoughts remain, where intellect loses all meaning, is called knowledge.’ My great good fortune to witness this perfection of the elements coming together – sacred land, water, time of dusk, time of prayer. Only the fire element is missing – to be completed by the Arti. A while passes before Dana returns. ‘I’m sorry,’ she apologises. ‘My problem is people – I meet so many people…’ The evening Arti in the temple is awesome. Ramakrishna has stressed a lot on the power of spiritual music. It is the time when all the monks and students will come together to chant the Arti. I am glad I am here with a friend.
Dana – my elfin fairy
On the way back in the bus I ask her if she misses home and she says yes, sometimes, specially on birthdays and festivals. ‘My father always encouraged me, he loved cultures. Now that he has passed away my mother wants me to come back,’ she said. Dana decides to take me for a metro ride – true Kolkatan host in a show-off mood. Once again she leads the way, buys the tickets. The ticket-seller is amused – people go into shock when they see a European speaking Bangla. They expect to hear a foreign language, hear their own. She tells them she is an Indian – a Bengali! And they are so confused, not so sure if what appears is, so they want to know if me, the person who looks Indian and is trailing the European, is an Indian or a foreigner!
Two buses and one train and we reach the hostel. Hooray to my guide in more ways than one. I want to give her a gift – I choose Jungle Jungle, Sufi song sung by Gurumayi. A gift is a token of love and appreciation that says thank you. I am moved by her openheartedness, pride, friendship. For a woman who’s traveled quite a distance I am awed by her courage and trust. She has opened many doors for me and I am reminded of the Sufi song Gurumayi has sung – to see God’s grace in everything and everyone around – Maalik ko tu pehchaan…
The Ramakrishna Movement:
For over a century, the Ramakrishna Mission’s contribution to education and health has been immense, not to mention disaster management. Be it flood, earthquake, tsunami – any calamity in the country and they are the first to respond. As a voluntary organization their credibility is unparalleled. Dana opens doors for me in more ways than one and I get a chance to speak with the head monk.
What makes institutions last over people’s lifetimes, I ask the 60-something Secretary of the Mission in Kolkata. He says, Mahatma Gandhi, Rabindranath Tagore, Sri Aurobindo were contemporaries of Swami Vivekananda who started movements around the same time. Yet, the rest are either completely forgotten or pale shadows of their former glory. ‘To be service-oriented and have a mission larger than individual liberation; to come together under a code of conduct with strict discipline, have been the hallmark of this Mission,’ he said. Swami Vivekananda said religion must not be mixed with politics, it is a misuse of both. Therefore, the Mission is completely apolitical, always, said the monk. Speaking on how they choose men to be part of the order, he said their training is of at least nine years, people must have certain educational qualifications, celibacy is a requisite. All monastic members have training in relief rehabiliation. ‘Exposure to reality is very important – coping with human distress becomes the starting point on how to serve.’
I ask why monks travel. He said, ‘Hindu monks practice detachment. Therefore they cannot be dependent on a household for more than three days. Swami Vivekananda wanted to understand India, therefore he traveled extensively. At some places like Porbandar, he stayed for 6-8 months as a scholar.’
As I thanked him and rose to leave, he said, ‘So you’ve finished your work here?’ No, I haven’t even started, I say. Come again, he said – a command of sorts, I think. Dana said ‘Don’t make fun of this place – study.’ She wasn’t saying it lightly.
Back in my room, I think about what the monk said and I hit upon a revelation: Jnana – knowledge, will lead to Bhakti – love, will lead to Karma – service. In the state-of-the-art Mission library, as I read about the history of the movement it strikes me that the monks who founded this order led such a difficult life. Truly, fruit of their sadhana that I am today, as a student here, enjoying such comfort.
Food
Kolkata was relishing exotic banana flowers, the bitter Shukto and what a wide range of sweets, every second shop being a sweet shop. ‘It’s something to do with climate, we ourselves find we eat so many sweets here,’ Sunita says. The bhaji – some deep fried thing is a constant. Bengalis are essentially non-vegetarian and I can smell it in everything I eat – same oil and all that. Rice remains the staple. The chutneys were really nice – the mango chutney specially tongue tickling. First place I’m seeing a range of chutneys on the menu, each priced. Soma says because this is an integral part of the meal, cooking it can take as much labour as a main dish. Soma took me for chat one day at the Gupta chat house – almost as good as our Lucknow King of Chat, I’d say. Sunita and Vinodji took me to a chai shop one morning – Sharma Chai House that had on offer some hundred kinds of chai. We enjoyed a ‘bada’ kulhad’ of nice rich milky saffron tea. And then, one evening we gorged on the Chinese samosa with noodle filling, in a popular city mall. The Chinese have contributed much to Kolkata culture. Chinatown, where families have lived for generations, has a number of small restaurants. Apparently, many of them are run by families who open their drawing rooms to double-up as restaurants. Great Chinese food on offer here. They are also famous as Kolkata’s Chinese shoemakers. A community that first came here … as early as… as traders and merchants along with the Arabs.
If Gaumukh and Gangotri is the mouth of Ganga, Kolkata is surely feet of Ganga. Puja celebrations are at their peak as I fly into Kolkata one late October evening. From the airport to the city is an enchanting drive. Past 10 in the night, the air is filled with festivity – music, colour, lights. And of course, lots of people. Puja pandals stand on both sides of the road. Even from a distance, this is unlike something I have seen before. Soma, my local buddy, has warned me of crazy traffic. ‘Roads may be blocked and you may have to walk part of the way,’ she says. But it’s a smooth drive and the traffic not too bad for what is famous for Kolkata. At the Ramakrishna Mission Scholars hostel at Gol Park, heart of town, I am given a neat, functional room on the first floor overlooking a busy street.
People at home have sent me off with two credit cards, two cell phones. However, wonder of wonders, I find I cannot make a call from either. So I troop down to the street to become one with the crowds below. Close to 11 and it’s as busy as it can be with men, women, children, dressed in their best, walking with a purpose in their step. Buses are running, foodstalls doing brisk business. Calls over, as I head back I feel happy and safe, easily merging in the crowds to become unnoticeable. This is a remarkably welcoming and inclusive feeling – as though the streets are ours and each one of us has an equal right to be here and celebrate the coming of the Devi. Back home, people had said the eastern part of the country shows greater respect for women probably because they worship the mother goddess. Whatever be the reason, this Delhiite is pleasantly surprised at the contrast. No ‘question mark looks’ – who are you, why are you here, whom are you with. Back in my room I watch the street for a while from my first floor window. It is past one by the time I knock off, lulled to sleep by the sound of traffic.
The next morning I start my day with the Guru Gita and Hatha Yoga – I am determined to make this a daily practice. Breakfast is at the dining hall. It’s an odd mix of people – Westerners, Japanese, Indians from different parts of the country, and of course, the Great Bengali. Breakfast is cornflakes, eggs on order, the famous Bengali veg roll, toast. To be served on the table by liveried middle-aged waiters has that old world charm.
The city is on holiday; all markets and offices are shut. People make time out once a year to set work aside, celebrate the presence of the Devi among them. Truly a community festival, it includes everyone – unlike Diwali in the north which is essentially a family festival. Now I know why the Bengali colleague must always take off on Puja – truly, who can stay away from a celebration and family reunion such as this.
On my own, with no fixed ‘agenda’ I feel free – the world is my playing field. Through this journey, the idea is not to fill up with too many things, but to assimilate, make sense of what I already know. As a wanderer, I let myself be ‘guided by the spirit’. Not important how many days I travel, how many kilometers I cover, but to constantly learn and experience every moment of the journey. I come with the blessings of so many people. Blessings empower us, like a gentle yet strong hand on my back pushing me forward as though to say: Go, may you find what you seek.
If travel abroad makes us cling to precious pounds and francs, in India it does the opposite. Suddenly, as though buying power increases multifold. The needle and thread for Rs 3 at Ganeshpuri the previous week was the minimum value thing I had purchased in a long while. Until the chai in Kolkata – a tiny little mitti cup for Rs 1.50. Two cups, total cost Rs 3. Looking for tea one afternoon, I walked down the street hoping I would find a Café Coffee Day or a Barista. Markets and shops shut, I found a cyber café, but no café. Just the bustling pavement chaishops. Back in the north, perhaps not the done thing to do, but here, I stopped at a teashop run by two women. Mother and daughter? Or mother-in-law, daughter-in-law possibly. The young woman, around 25, looked a smart entrepreneur. Sipping excellent tea by the road I notice the pedestrian is king: Roads have been blocked to make way for people as they go socializing, pandal hopping. There is the sizzle of streetfood – egg roll, mutton roll, egg pakoda and all the rest of it, there are the namkeen sellers and the fruit sellers – a kharbooja that looks like a big kheera.
A small-frame girl, about 25, approaches me with great dignity and sells me a booklet on Subhash Chandra Bose. First I thought – the Church types. I stopped because I was wandering anyway. A wanderer has an open mind and an open heart – who knows what will lead to what. She said she works with a publishing house that brings out cheaply priced books on leaders and by regional writers specially aimed at educating young people. Also on offer are books by Hindi writer Premchand.
Back in my room late evening, the street by night continues to hold attention. I feel like a Maya Memsaab peering down from my first floor window. This year Puja, normally lasting 4-5 days, is condensed into three. The Bengalis look determined to pack the three days with high intensity. The immersion processions have begun. Leading the idol are men – beating drums, playing the clappers, waving the dhoop. The power of the drum beat is unlike anything I have heard before. I am mesmerized.
Everywhere, the Devi looks awesome – majestic, compassionate, bejewelled. Sunita and family, wonderful Kolkata friends, take me pandal hopping one night. One pandal is a replica of an Orissan temple, another on yoga and meditation is designed like a cave. Exhibition design of a unique kind. So much effort goes into creating each pandal, it is difficult to imagine it is just for a few days. Living art as worship at its best. The impermanence of the art lends it a prayer-like quality. Like the rangoli and the kollam cleaned away each morning and made afresh, the Devi will be immersed, the pandal dismantled and made new next year. Preparations will begin almost six months in advance.
The Bengali believes during this time Durga descends on earth. The priest does the prana pratishtha and the clay idol becomes infused with the soul of the Devi. Towards the end of the festival the soul is released, the idol becomes a doll, and is immersed in the river. Until next year, when She will come again.
The Navratri is a very sacred time, more so for women I think. We are honouring the feminine force, Prakriti. In doing so, we honour our own divinity and feminity. We understand that the nature of woman is compassion, beauty, victory, pride. All these virtues so very empowering that it leaves no space to feel weak or ‘powerless’ in any way. Whether it is Western India – Gujarat and Maharashtra – or the east – West Bengal, Orissa, Assam – Navratri is that time awesome time of the year when the streets and colonies will sport a renewed exuberance. It is the time of the year when the weather turns pleasant with approaching winter, when homes have been whitewashed clean, newness in the air with new clothes and new leaves. The Devi is a 30-ish woman I would say – youthful, mother, attractive, buoyant. I am that age so it makes me feel good about who I am. All the mid-30s blues vanish.
Multicultural Identity
The Scholars Hostel at the Ramakrishna Mission is full with international students. I hear someone practicing on the tabla in the room nextdoor – it’s the Japanese girl who is a student of South Asian studies. She is learning the tabla and also learning art at the College of Art. She has spent an year in Karachi, speaks fluent Urdu, says her Hindi is better than her English. Karachi was very different from here, she says. ‘You could not wear western clothes and it was very repressed for women.’
The Romanian girls are lighthearted, energetic, have a great sense of humour. Dana, who has been at the Mission 8 years, says ‘you must go to Shantinketan’. ‘Her birthplace,’ chimes in her friend, who has ‘just arrived’ – five months back. Dana has been in India 11 years, the first three she spent at Shantinekatan. When she arrived she could speak fluent Bengali and Sanskrit. A student of Sanskrit philosophy, she has done comparative study of Sanskrit with the ancient European languages, has translated the Upanishads into Romanian. A Japanese young man is here to learn Bengali language ‘so he can better understand the villages in Bengal.’ Many Japanese researchers are interested in Bengali culture, he says. A young boy from Noida is studying an MBA. Trust the north Indians to gang up: People in Kolkata are very nosey, he tells me. That’s breakfast table one morning.
The Ramakrishna Mission is very inclusive of different cultures. I read in a book by Swami Ranganathananda that every culture is an experiment, therefore no culture can be perfect, and hence the need, more so in today’s times, for cultures to learn from each other. With characteristic gracefulness the Japanese wished me a great journey: ‘I hope you have a great trip, I know you will – you have very curious eyes.’ The students inspire me to open my eyes to the world, look at the buffet spread on offer, choose what I would like to ruminate on. I am reminded of the story my friend Sudipto once told me years ago of wildlife photographers who spent eight years in a jungle tracking a leopard cub. Such is the kind of dedication and sincerity honest work demands. No wonder then they must look at the rest of us ‘touristy types’ with some contempt.
Tourist in Kolkata
Soma, my proud Bengali host, takes me around town. At the Academy of Fine Arts, I am delighted to find the kadamba tree – something I have been searching for years. The tree has an intoxicating fragrance and a majestic form in the way it branches out. The flower is a bright yellow sphere, bigger than the table-tennis ball. Outside the St Paul’s Church, I find something similar to the molshree tree – tall and wide tree with red berries. The trees take me to childhood memories of the Arts College in Lucknow where I grew up. The campus with its Tagore statue, the ‘Thinker’ statue, kadamba and molshree trees. I think of the young men and women who would have graduated from Kolkata Arts College and Shantinekatan, even IIT Kharagpur, like my Dad, and moved to the Lucknow Arts College in the ’60s. They planted the trees they knew and loved, created sculptures of their master Tagore. People who had studied under the masters, some direct students of Tagore.
Mrs Pawar, our septagenarian artist in Lucknow, who also graduated from Shantiniketan spoke of the artist Nandalal Bose who would always carry pen and paper so he could pause and make a sketch when he saw something beautiful. To do this is, ‘nature ko pranam karna’, he would say. Mrs Pawar was also my window to the art of batik – a Shantiniketan trademark. Being here, I understand how much Bengali culture influenced my father who studied here fifty years ago. His gentle and peace loving demeanour, love for nature, immense contentment that can be mistaken for complacency, surely comes from here. This is also where I got my name – Dad named me after a professor!
Sunita and Vinodji take me to the Kalighat temple one morning. A wonderful 40-something couple I first met in the Ganeshpuri ashram a decade ago, they are light-hearted, good-humoured and very affectionate. The sturdy Punjabi spirit! Sunita heads the Punjabi division at the National Library, Vinodji is a forensic scientist with the Police. One daughter is an ace interior designer working in Pune, the second is studying fashion design in Kolkata. A family that has made Kolkata its home for over twenty years, they say they love the simplicity of the place and its people. Needless to say, they all speak fluent Bangla. Rice is my staple, says daughter Sneha.
We go to the Kalighat temple with a police escort and so we get ‘instant darshan’. Suddenly we see ourselves in front of the magnificent idol, so close, we could touch but could not see it in its entirety. I understood why the temple is designed the way it is: You enter, you approach, you bow – the time and space allows us to prepare to receive darshan of the idol. Vinodoji showed us the place where the bali is done. A little enclosure with bamboos – to tie the goat I guess. Gives me a shudder. Death to the animal is victory to the devotee? To kill the most gentle animal, tied, can hardly be called bravery. Vinodji tells us that in the pandals also the bali is done symbolically with a white pumpkin. Few temples where the animal bali tradition has been allowed to continue – most other places it has been banned thanks to animal rights activists. I am reminded of a cousin who as a schoolgirl told me she saw a television programme on animal sacrifice at Kamakhya temple, Guwahati, and turned vegetarian for good.
Soma and I do the Victoria one day. It’s a beautiful building. It’s the day our tour to Sunderbans was cancelled due to bad weather so we are carrying our backpacks. We cannot take the bags inside, we are told, and there is no place to deposit them. Man at the entry suggests we go in one at a time, one person guarding the bags outside. That is undoubtedly an extremely dumb option – but groups are doing that for lack of choice. We head to the lawns – extremely well maintained – and join the lovers on the benches at 11 am. It begins to rain, so the umbrellas come out. This must make such a funny picture – rain, lawns, umbrella, garden bench, the awesome Victoria for background – I beg Soma to let me take a pic, she says No. We dig into our picnic basket intended for Sunderbans. Finally, we must go to Sunita’s office close by – the National Library – so we can keep our bags safe and soak in the history at Victoria.
The magnificent collection of artefacts, sketches and oils, portraits, sculpture is a remarkable window into British India and the freedom struggle. But what really stayed with me is the letter Tagore wrote to the Viceroy declining knighthood in protest against the Jallianwala killings. I have seen this before at an extremely moving exhibition at Jallianwala, Amritsar, a couple of years ago on Baisakhi day, the anniversary of the massacre. Somehow, here, to be able to read the letter almost for real it has a very moving impact.
At the National Library we see the first published newspaper in India (was published from Kolkata) and the oldest books – ancient Tamil manuscripts on palmleaf, Persian books from the Mughal period, the first printed book on leather so fine it seemed like paper. ‘Made from leather from the skin of an unborn calf,’ we are told. The Hindu in me does a double-take, insides squirming. About four hundred years old, the book remains unspoilt.
The Ramakrishna Mission and Belur Math
We hire a car one day and Soma takes me to Belur Math and Dakshineswar. A former journalist colleague from Pioneer, Soma is an avid reader, film and television critic. A single woman in her 40s, she lives with her parents, does freelance writing assignments and is researching a novel set in the Mughal period. Belur is an hour’s drive away, we also get to cross the famous new bridge which is an engineering feat and a visual delight. Soma tells me the Howrah bridge was made by the British in … and took … years to build, the new bridge was built in … and took .. years to build.
Belur Math, which is the global headquarters of the Ramakrishna Movement, has its main temple dedicated to Ramakrishna Paramhansa. The temple façade draws symbols from the different major religions of the world. There is a large temple hall where people meditate during the day and Arti is sung every evening. The Math has shrines dedicated to Ramakrishna’s wife Sharada Devi, and his disciples Vivekananda and Brahmananda. The place where the first twelve monks who were Ramakrishna’s disciples were cremated has been marked, also the space where the monks are cremated now. Just by the Ganga, the Belur Math has the silence of maun darshan in Gurudev Siddha Peeth. There are people, music, sounds, but no conversation. In the complete silence we honour something and someone. Silence takes us inward so quickly. To be silent is to quieten the chatter of the mind. Not for anything it has been said, for the heart to listen to God, it must be in silence.
It strikes me that travel is about recognizing, pehchaan. In Kolkata, I recognize the trees I have known as a child; recognize the silence at Belur similar to Gurudev Siddha Peeth. And what does it make me feel – the joy of seeing a familiar face where one least expects it. Or perhaps the joy of meeting family we have not met before – as though we are connected and our destinies are inter-linked in some mysterious way.
The Belur museum is a labour of love. We walk around it on the outside to see history of India down the ages depicted through relief sculptures. On the inside, the museum tells of the history of the Ramakrishna movement, recreates the past, and showcases original artefacts. It leaves me completely inspired – not just by the greatness of the movement but also the pride with which the story has been told. Very rare to see museums and exhibitions so well conceived and implemented. There is an entrance fee of Rs 3: Small enough to ensure access to all, prevent hangers-on.
The next evening I am at the Belur Math again, this time thanks to Dana. There is time for the evening Arti, she needs to use the hostel toilet so I proceed to sit by the banks of the Ganga. As a full moon rises over the water, I chant the mantra Om Namah Shivaya silently to myself. Families on the steps are doing the regular touristy stuff like taking pictures. Some men, even old women are taking a dip. Our India – so special, so beautiful. The Jnaneshwar Maharaj quote comes to mind – Jahan vichar thama jaate hain, jahan buddhi kaam nahi aati, use jnana kehte hain. ‘That space where no thoughts remain, where intellect loses all meaning, is called knowledge.’ My great good fortune to witness this perfection of the elements coming together – sacred land, water, time of dusk, time of prayer. Only the fire element is missing – to be completed by the Arti. A while passes before Dana returns. ‘I’m sorry,’ she apologises. ‘My problem is people – I meet so many people…’ The evening Arti in the temple is awesome. Ramakrishna has stressed a lot on the power of spiritual music. It is the time when all the monks and students will come together to chant the Arti. I am glad I am here with a friend.
Dana – my elfin fairy
On the way back in the bus I ask her if she misses home and she says yes, sometimes, specially on birthdays and festivals. ‘My father always encouraged me, he loved cultures. Now that he has passed away my mother wants me to come back,’ she said. Dana decides to take me for a metro ride – true Kolkatan host in a show-off mood. Once again she leads the way, buys the tickets. The ticket-seller is amused – people go into shock when they see a European speaking Bangla. They expect to hear a foreign language, hear their own. She tells them she is an Indian – a Bengali! And they are so confused, not so sure if what appears is, so they want to know if me, the person who looks Indian and is trailing the European, is an Indian or a foreigner!
Two buses and one train and we reach the hostel. Hooray to my guide in more ways than one. I want to give her a gift – I choose Jungle Jungle, Sufi song sung by Gurumayi. A gift is a token of love and appreciation that says thank you. I am moved by her openheartedness, pride, friendship. For a woman who’s traveled quite a distance I am awed by her courage and trust. She has opened many doors for me and I am reminded of the Sufi song Gurumayi has sung – to see God’s grace in everything and everyone around – Maalik ko tu pehchaan…
The Ramakrishna Movement:
For over a century, the Ramakrishna Mission’s contribution to education and health has been immense, not to mention disaster management. Be it flood, earthquake, tsunami – any calamity in the country and they are the first to respond. As a voluntary organization their credibility is unparalleled. Dana opens doors for me in more ways than one and I get a chance to speak with the head monk.
What makes institutions last over people’s lifetimes, I ask the 60-something Secretary of the Mission in Kolkata. He says, Mahatma Gandhi, Rabindranath Tagore, Sri Aurobindo were contemporaries of Swami Vivekananda who started movements around the same time. Yet, the rest are either completely forgotten or pale shadows of their former glory. ‘To be service-oriented and have a mission larger than individual liberation; to come together under a code of conduct with strict discipline, have been the hallmark of this Mission,’ he said. Swami Vivekananda said religion must not be mixed with politics, it is a misuse of both. Therefore, the Mission is completely apolitical, always, said the monk. Speaking on how they choose men to be part of the order, he said their training is of at least nine years, people must have certain educational qualifications, celibacy is a requisite. All monastic members have training in relief rehabiliation. ‘Exposure to reality is very important – coping with human distress becomes the starting point on how to serve.’
I ask why monks travel. He said, ‘Hindu monks practice detachment. Therefore they cannot be dependent on a household for more than three days. Swami Vivekananda wanted to understand India, therefore he traveled extensively. At some places like Porbandar, he stayed for 6-8 months as a scholar.’
As I thanked him and rose to leave, he said, ‘So you’ve finished your work here?’ No, I haven’t even started, I say. Come again, he said – a command of sorts, I think. Dana said ‘Don’t make fun of this place – study.’ She wasn’t saying it lightly.
Back in my room, I think about what the monk said and I hit upon a revelation: Jnana – knowledge, will lead to Bhakti – love, will lead to Karma – service. In the state-of-the-art Mission library, as I read about the history of the movement it strikes me that the monks who founded this order led such a difficult life. Truly, fruit of their sadhana that I am today, as a student here, enjoying such comfort.
Food
Kolkata was relishing exotic banana flowers, the bitter Shukto and what a wide range of sweets, every second shop being a sweet shop. ‘It’s something to do with climate, we ourselves find we eat so many sweets here,’ Sunita says. The bhaji – some deep fried thing is a constant. Bengalis are essentially non-vegetarian and I can smell it in everything I eat – same oil and all that. Rice remains the staple. The chutneys were really nice – the mango chutney specially tongue tickling. First place I’m seeing a range of chutneys on the menu, each priced. Soma says because this is an integral part of the meal, cooking it can take as much labour as a main dish. Soma took me for chat one day at the Gupta chat house – almost as good as our Lucknow King of Chat, I’d say. Sunita and Vinodji took me to a chai shop one morning – Sharma Chai House that had on offer some hundred kinds of chai. We enjoyed a ‘bada’ kulhad’ of nice rich milky saffron tea. And then, one evening we gorged on the Chinese samosa with noodle filling, in a popular city mall. The Chinese have contributed much to Kolkata culture. Chinatown, where families have lived for generations, has a number of small restaurants. Apparently, many of them are run by families who open their drawing rooms to double-up as restaurants. Great Chinese food on offer here. They are also famous as Kolkata’s Chinese shoemakers. A community that first came here … as early as… as traders and merchants along with the Arabs.
Why this Journey
It’s been two years since I took off on my dream journey – backpacking along the Indian coastline, solo woman traveller. Three months of 'wandering' . It's been an incredible journey. In some ways, the journey continues.
A journey is a metaphor for seeking. We go to a place because we believe it will reveal something of extraordinary importance. In one of her talks Gurumayi says, “Think of a place you've always wanted to go to. Does one name jump to mind. Why? Because you think it will reveal something important to you. In the same way, you came on this planet out of your own choice. Whether you believe it or not, this is a choice you made.”
So that is really interesting – life as a journey; the destination we choose for a specific purpose. Every part of the journey, then – good, bad, indifferent – begins to have a purpose. I believe it will reveal something significant.
That seems like a good starting point. I’m a travel junkie. There is something very free-ing about travel. It teaches detachment. What must I leave behind, what must I carry with me. What's truly important. There has to be a reason why monks of all traditions travel. It has to be with opening our minds to different ways of being .
Understanding people, exploring cultures, opens the mind like few things else. Travel is a completely sensory experience bringing alive all parts of our being. To see, smell, feel, hear all that is unfamiliar sharpens the senses. The mind and heart get equal exercise, not to mention the legs.
I knew my path would be along the sea. I love water and I love the sea. Nothing quite like standing on a seashore looking at the infinity in front. And it had to be India, of that there was no doubt. As a former journalist now working on development communication, India intrigues me. So much diversity in every sense of the word – races, religions, languages, ecosystems – yet something extraordinary that binds us together. I am out to try and explore that.
Exploring where we come from is an extension of exploring who we are. As I understand my land and my region I also seek to understand my own self. That makes me a seeker, a musafir, a pilgrim traveler.
We are a society in transition. So much has changed so fast in India over the last decade. We are setting world standards, and yet the gap is widening like never before. There is so much inspiration around in the work of young musicians and sportspersons, and business leaders and social activists. In Bangalore, I am impressed with the Infosys story – ‘powered by intellect, driven by values’ as they call themselves. Today’s wealthiest people have created wealth based on knowledge. They are giving back to society many times over. The picture contrasts in a Kanpur suburb: Industries have collapsed, people are jobless, crime rate is high, there is little respect for law and order. Sitting in suburban Kanpur in a temporary mud shelter in the mid-day sun with a group of adolescent girls and women, surrounded by more flies than I have seen ever, I cannot understand why it must be like this. What makes some of us build institutions that set new world standards, what makes some of us so complacent and indifferent and dream-less. As I watch a senior bureaucrat in Kanpur spend an afternoon in office waxing eloquent on the culinary skills in Nawab Wajid Ali Shah’s kitchen to an audience, I get a clue: The leader’s will determines the change.
It’s a period of change. Hence the urge strong as never before to understand the complex fabric of our land: The past that shapes us, the present that determines who we are. Across the many Indias that co-exist, what are the enduring symbols? As I travel across India I seek to understand who we are as a people and a nation: What makes us different, what binds us together, who are we? As an oped writer pointed out: ‘Mature nations like mature people know their strengths and weaknesses.’
To go along the coast would mean an opportunity to watch the sea in its various moods and colours. I would traverse through nine States and at least two union territories. My chance to explore the rich variety of cultures – food, textile, language, religion – and of course the varied topography from marshland to desert to backwaters.
The Romans and Arabs came to these shores as early as the first century BC. The Portuguese, Dutch, French, British have come via the seas, as did Mahmud of Ghazni over a thousand years ago. From Kolkata to Pondicherry and Goa, the Europeans traded, invaded, converted, ruled, changing the face of not just the peninsular but all of India. Here’s my chance to understand so much of history and its impact on present-day life. A student on a self- education trip, I must carry with me the curiosity of my four-year-old nephew. Not for anything Pico Iyer has written – every traveler is a child, every child a traveler.
The sea and merging waters also become a symbol of One World. The sea unites us; waters have no barriers. A year after the tsunami, I want to understand how people living by the sea relate to it. The sea is definitely a feminine power – it creates, sustains, and nurtures a million life forms. Abused by men day after day, the sea bears it all, constantly renewing itself. And yet, surely a time will come when it will, like the much-abused tolerant woman, fight back. When that happens it is with a power that is unprecedented.
Much as the tsunami was a reminder of nature’s power, it also made us wonder if this is nature’s wrath at a world and people gone very wrong. In times of suicide bombers and aborted female fetuses, it was as though as the earth’s core shook, it shook us all, throwing a million questions – why do disasters such as these happen, is the earth trying to tell us something and if so what. Laws of physics are universal – every action must have an equal and opposite reaction. The sea is truly the ‘athah sagar’ – boundless ocean of story and mystery.
One September morning as I sit in my office in New Delhi trying to grapple with ‘how women in rural Madhya Pradesh can know their risk to HIV/AIDS and protect themselves from it’, it suddenly dawns on me it’s time to sail away. For six years I have worked in a nonprofit media and communication research organization. It has helped me see human poverty and misery at close quarters. Working on HIV/AIDS issues – gender, public health, violence, sexuality, drug use – has helped me interact with a range of communities across India as well as get a global perspective. Suddenly, I feel I must leave – a call so urgent as though it is now or never. Maybe it’s the mid-30s blues. And so, seven years after the idea first took form while traveling on the East Coast Road from Villupuram to Chennai, I finally have the courage to quit, pack my bags and sail forth on the journey of my dreams along the Indian coast.
As I travel, given the foodie I am, food becomes my lens into understanding culture. The smell, taste, sizzle of street food in particular seems to hold the key to knowing a place. As a student of Siddha Yoga philosophy and culture, spirituality becomes my second lens. Travel gives me the chance to 'be the scientist' as Gurumayi says and 'experiment' with the teachings. It’s reassuring to know that teachings and wisdom light my path, friends and fellow seekers are dotted all across the country. So my second lens is spirituality, religion, yoga. To be the pilgrim traveller in land of yoga -- what could be better than that. My chance to discover the wealth of centuries of seeking.
I will be travelling alone. I don’t know any other way. It makes us so much more freer. Friends and family suggest I travel with somebody but I just shrug it off. I have a broad plan and route of journey, an estimated time and budget, some phone numbers of friends along the way. Two cell phones and two credit cards. Lonely Planet. Books by my Gurus which I will be studying like textbooks.
Needless to say, as much as this is a journey without it is also a journey within. At 34 and single, so many questions in my mind. Should I be getting married, do I want to remain single. What is my vocation. After dabbling in different things, time to take stock and find my true vocation. Where do I want to live. With whom? So in a way this is something like ‘throw everything up in the air and something will come of it’ syndrome. Let's see what happens. Travel allows us to Transcend -- gain a larger perspective.
I have no fixed agenda. Just a fixation – to be present in the moment, guided by the spirit, take off in whatever direction I please, learn, understand, explore. The plan is to fly to Kolkata, go down the east coast to Kanyakumari and up the west coast to Dwarka – a journey by the peninsular much like a parikrama.
All great journeys begin at the feet of Bhagwan Nityananda, I hear, so first, I head off to Ganeshpuri, a small village close to Mumbai. To be in front of the idol in the Temple is to know the deep silence within and without. Then, to Lucknow, to meet my Dad. Much empowered by the wishes and blessings of friends and family I fly to Kolkata on the evening of my 34th birthday. It is the day of ashtmi, Saraswati puja – couldn’t be a better day to embark on this journey. I am happy and excited. There is ‘wonder in most everything I see…’ The occasion is pregnant with infinite possibilities. For the first time, I get to be a backpacker/ wanderer out to research something I am interested in, apply the tools and learnings I have studied these last few years: The world becomes my textbook.
I'm excited as can be.
A journey is a metaphor for seeking. We go to a place because we believe it will reveal something of extraordinary importance. In one of her talks Gurumayi says, “Think of a place you've always wanted to go to. Does one name jump to mind. Why? Because you think it will reveal something important to you. In the same way, you came on this planet out of your own choice. Whether you believe it or not, this is a choice you made.”
So that is really interesting – life as a journey; the destination we choose for a specific purpose. Every part of the journey, then – good, bad, indifferent – begins to have a purpose. I believe it will reveal something significant.
That seems like a good starting point. I’m a travel junkie. There is something very free-ing about travel. It teaches detachment. What must I leave behind, what must I carry with me. What's truly important. There has to be a reason why monks of all traditions travel. It has to be with opening our minds to different ways of being .
Understanding people, exploring cultures, opens the mind like few things else. Travel is a completely sensory experience bringing alive all parts of our being. To see, smell, feel, hear all that is unfamiliar sharpens the senses. The mind and heart get equal exercise, not to mention the legs.
I knew my path would be along the sea. I love water and I love the sea. Nothing quite like standing on a seashore looking at the infinity in front. And it had to be India, of that there was no doubt. As a former journalist now working on development communication, India intrigues me. So much diversity in every sense of the word – races, religions, languages, ecosystems – yet something extraordinary that binds us together. I am out to try and explore that.
Exploring where we come from is an extension of exploring who we are. As I understand my land and my region I also seek to understand my own self. That makes me a seeker, a musafir, a pilgrim traveler.
We are a society in transition. So much has changed so fast in India over the last decade. We are setting world standards, and yet the gap is widening like never before. There is so much inspiration around in the work of young musicians and sportspersons, and business leaders and social activists. In Bangalore, I am impressed with the Infosys story – ‘powered by intellect, driven by values’ as they call themselves. Today’s wealthiest people have created wealth based on knowledge. They are giving back to society many times over. The picture contrasts in a Kanpur suburb: Industries have collapsed, people are jobless, crime rate is high, there is little respect for law and order. Sitting in suburban Kanpur in a temporary mud shelter in the mid-day sun with a group of adolescent girls and women, surrounded by more flies than I have seen ever, I cannot understand why it must be like this. What makes some of us build institutions that set new world standards, what makes some of us so complacent and indifferent and dream-less. As I watch a senior bureaucrat in Kanpur spend an afternoon in office waxing eloquent on the culinary skills in Nawab Wajid Ali Shah’s kitchen to an audience, I get a clue: The leader’s will determines the change.
It’s a period of change. Hence the urge strong as never before to understand the complex fabric of our land: The past that shapes us, the present that determines who we are. Across the many Indias that co-exist, what are the enduring symbols? As I travel across India I seek to understand who we are as a people and a nation: What makes us different, what binds us together, who are we? As an oped writer pointed out: ‘Mature nations like mature people know their strengths and weaknesses.’
To go along the coast would mean an opportunity to watch the sea in its various moods and colours. I would traverse through nine States and at least two union territories. My chance to explore the rich variety of cultures – food, textile, language, religion – and of course the varied topography from marshland to desert to backwaters.
The Romans and Arabs came to these shores as early as the first century BC. The Portuguese, Dutch, French, British have come via the seas, as did Mahmud of Ghazni over a thousand years ago. From Kolkata to Pondicherry and Goa, the Europeans traded, invaded, converted, ruled, changing the face of not just the peninsular but all of India. Here’s my chance to understand so much of history and its impact on present-day life. A student on a self- education trip, I must carry with me the curiosity of my four-year-old nephew. Not for anything Pico Iyer has written – every traveler is a child, every child a traveler.
The sea and merging waters also become a symbol of One World. The sea unites us; waters have no barriers. A year after the tsunami, I want to understand how people living by the sea relate to it. The sea is definitely a feminine power – it creates, sustains, and nurtures a million life forms. Abused by men day after day, the sea bears it all, constantly renewing itself. And yet, surely a time will come when it will, like the much-abused tolerant woman, fight back. When that happens it is with a power that is unprecedented.
Much as the tsunami was a reminder of nature’s power, it also made us wonder if this is nature’s wrath at a world and people gone very wrong. In times of suicide bombers and aborted female fetuses, it was as though as the earth’s core shook, it shook us all, throwing a million questions – why do disasters such as these happen, is the earth trying to tell us something and if so what. Laws of physics are universal – every action must have an equal and opposite reaction. The sea is truly the ‘athah sagar’ – boundless ocean of story and mystery.
One September morning as I sit in my office in New Delhi trying to grapple with ‘how women in rural Madhya Pradesh can know their risk to HIV/AIDS and protect themselves from it’, it suddenly dawns on me it’s time to sail away. For six years I have worked in a nonprofit media and communication research organization. It has helped me see human poverty and misery at close quarters. Working on HIV/AIDS issues – gender, public health, violence, sexuality, drug use – has helped me interact with a range of communities across India as well as get a global perspective. Suddenly, I feel I must leave – a call so urgent as though it is now or never. Maybe it’s the mid-30s blues. And so, seven years after the idea first took form while traveling on the East Coast Road from Villupuram to Chennai, I finally have the courage to quit, pack my bags and sail forth on the journey of my dreams along the Indian coast.
As I travel, given the foodie I am, food becomes my lens into understanding culture. The smell, taste, sizzle of street food in particular seems to hold the key to knowing a place. As a student of Siddha Yoga philosophy and culture, spirituality becomes my second lens. Travel gives me the chance to 'be the scientist' as Gurumayi says and 'experiment' with the teachings. It’s reassuring to know that teachings and wisdom light my path, friends and fellow seekers are dotted all across the country. So my second lens is spirituality, religion, yoga. To be the pilgrim traveller in land of yoga -- what could be better than that. My chance to discover the wealth of centuries of seeking.
I will be travelling alone. I don’t know any other way. It makes us so much more freer. Friends and family suggest I travel with somebody but I just shrug it off. I have a broad plan and route of journey, an estimated time and budget, some phone numbers of friends along the way. Two cell phones and two credit cards. Lonely Planet. Books by my Gurus which I will be studying like textbooks.
Needless to say, as much as this is a journey without it is also a journey within. At 34 and single, so many questions in my mind. Should I be getting married, do I want to remain single. What is my vocation. After dabbling in different things, time to take stock and find my true vocation. Where do I want to live. With whom? So in a way this is something like ‘throw everything up in the air and something will come of it’ syndrome. Let's see what happens. Travel allows us to Transcend -- gain a larger perspective.
I have no fixed agenda. Just a fixation – to be present in the moment, guided by the spirit, take off in whatever direction I please, learn, understand, explore. The plan is to fly to Kolkata, go down the east coast to Kanyakumari and up the west coast to Dwarka – a journey by the peninsular much like a parikrama.
All great journeys begin at the feet of Bhagwan Nityananda, I hear, so first, I head off to Ganeshpuri, a small village close to Mumbai. To be in front of the idol in the Temple is to know the deep silence within and without. Then, to Lucknow, to meet my Dad. Much empowered by the wishes and blessings of friends and family I fly to Kolkata on the evening of my 34th birthday. It is the day of ashtmi, Saraswati puja – couldn’t be a better day to embark on this journey. I am happy and excited. There is ‘wonder in most everything I see…’ The occasion is pregnant with infinite possibilities. For the first time, I get to be a backpacker/ wanderer out to research something I am interested in, apply the tools and learnings I have studied these last few years: The world becomes my textbook.
I'm excited as can be.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)