India Journal, December 2009, Entry 7
It has been awhile since I posted, and I apologize for my absence.
The good news was that I was immersed in a writing and project management contract for a large IT company. Sadly, I found that, as when I worked as a salaried employee for the same concern, my concentration and most of my creative energy was tapped by end of the business day. -- Whenever I sat down to review my notes and continue to flesh out my India diary stories – no juice.
Today, the bad news is that the contract is over, with few prospects for new work on the horizon. I’m not worried, though. In fact, I’ll enjoy a brief respite! So --Back to work I go before my memory dims and I forget the color and details of this amazing experience.
****
Delhi.
I am totally overwhelmed. The number of people, the poverty, the wealth, the noise, the monkeys and cows and camels in the street, the smoke of the cooking fires, the film of dust on every surface I touch. I try to remember what Siobhan has shared in her calls home, hearing her voice as a mantra, telling us over and over to remember, “All things in their context.” Yes, Siobhan. This is not the West. And I am not at all sure that my heart can contain all the joy and sadness and fear and exhilaration … and desperation that surround us.
It has cooled down with the sun-setting, but the temperature still hovers around 95 degrees. At the end of our taxi tour, Samy takes us to, I am sure, two of his “paid” stops: The Delhi Hut, where we are surrounded by literally hundreds of thousands of cottage industry handmade goods – and the intense young men who must make their livelihood by selling same to tourists like us; and a lovely garden restaurant where we have a delicious vegan meal and several ice-cold beers.( I might add that this is the best beer I have ever had -- the first and last alcoholic beverage we will have in India.) I succumb to buying a sari at the Delhi Hut. It is silk chiffon, a beautiful shade of sea-blue with delicate gold-thread embroidery. Maybe I will wear it to the wedding I’ll be going to in the early Summer. I think there is a tailor in Nashua who can help me with the blouse and skirt…
When we return to the cab after our dinner, Samy has evening prayers playing on his radio. He turns down the volume and asks if we would like to see “the most beautiful and reasonably priced silver goods in all of Nothern India”. He knows we are tired, and doesn’t press too hard when we day “no, not tonight”. He turns up the volume again and continues with his prayers, and we drive (or careen) along the winding streets of Old Delhi, back to our hotel, listening to the solemn and beautiful chanting of the Koran.
Samy is a gentle, good man. He is kind, funny, generous with his story-telling – and perhaps the least imposing Indian that we encounter on our amazing journey. When we arrive at our hotel, he opens the doors to his cab and, almost shyly, offers a hand-on-handshake to my husband. He respectfully bows to me, saying “Namaste, Mother”. While Tim settles our bill, I ask if he will wait a moment while I get something from our room. I run up the stairs to retrieve hair-barrettes and candies for his daughters.
I am not sure he knows what to make of my gift for his children.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
India Journal, December 2009. Entry 6
"The definition of insanity is thinking that you need something you don't have. The mere fact that you exist right now without that which you think you need is proof that you don't need it." Byron Katie, author and spiritual teacher
India, as I think about my short time here, seems to me to be a land and people who have internalized the essence of existence: 1,161,240,000* or so people rise each morning, bathe, have a cup of tea and make their way to work, or school, or the shop where they gather to smoke and socialize. Or to the streets to beg.
****
Our tour of Old Delhi continues. As we pass the India Gate, otherwise known as the All India War Memorial, I gasp. – Next to us, a family of five is circling the round-about, top-speed, on a motor-bike. Papa is driving with a toddler in his lap; behind him, a small girl and her mother wrap their arms around each other and his waist; and on Mama’s back, in a wrap-around sling, is baby. I think back a year, before Avery Pearl was born, to my son-in-law, checking and double-checking his government-approved infant seat so he could safely bring his precious daughter home from the hospital…
I make myself concentrate on what Sammy is telling us about the Gate. It was constructed in 1921 to commemorate the seventy thousand Indian soldiers who perished in World War I. As India was under British rule then, the Army of India consisted of both the Indian and the British Armies in India, and was the military protector of the British Raj. In 1971, “Amar Jawan Jyoti” was added under the original arch to honor the Indian Jawans who gave their lives during the Indo-Pak War of 1971…
Our next stop is a World Heritage Site, the Red Fort. Sammy pulls to the curbside near the main entrance. He will wait if we want to tour, but suggests that if we want to see other places of interest, we may want to postpone, as it usually takes a minimum of 3 hours to walk through the grounds and buildings. I can understand why. The Fort is an immense irregular octagon with two main gates, the Lahori and the Delhi. The walls and gates of the structure are the striking red sandstone that is such a favored building material in this Northern Indian state. We won’t have an opportunity to see for ourselves, but Sammy explains that the many halls and palaces inside are built largely of Indian marble. Next visit, I promise myself, along with the Taj Mahal. Sammy sends us off with the instructions to "watch for pick-pockets, and meet me back here in 30 minutes".
****
“Americans!” As we exit the car, we can literally hear the murmur pass through the group of peddlers waiting at the entranceway.
“Mrs. Mrs? You like to see my books to remember your visit to the Red Fort?”
“No, no thank you.” I duck away, and he pursues. “But these are good pictures, see?”
“Yes I do. But I have my own camera.”
“Then I take a picture of you and your husband in front of the Red Fort with your camera. My time only 10 rupee.”
I gesture no, and in turning, bump into a young, bearded boy. “Raj beard. Only 5 rupee.” I stare at him dumbly. On his display board are a variety of fake beards, all in the style of mid-eighteenth century Indian royalty. “Put on you. See?”
“No put on me. No thank you, sweetheart.” I fish in my back-pack for a granola bar. His face crumples when I hand it to him.
“Namaste, Mrs.”, he whispers as he walks away. I look after him for about 20 seconds and when I turn around, there stands a tall, smiling slender man who, it turns out, is the same one we initially encountered at the gate. He has traded his postcard books for a box of toy “putt-putts”. (A putt-putt is a 3-wheeled, diesel-driven, open taxi. A very popular and cheap way to travel around town in India.)
“For your grandson, Mrs. 20 rupee. Is a deal?”
“No, sir, no deal. No thank you.” I am getting exasperated. We have spent about 15 minutes and have only traveled 50 feet into the courtyard. I content myself with snapping a few pictures of the Fort from this distance. Tim buys a photo book for 10 rupees to silence the man and we run, literally, back to the safety of Sammy and his cool, clean car.
I want to see India. I want to experience India. But -- I am tired, already, of this endless pursuit.
* As of the March 2009 official census. Note that this is a population increase of almost 932 million people since the previous census of January 2008. (1,129,888,000) I think, perhaps, there is a little love-making going on, too.
India, as I think about my short time here, seems to me to be a land and people who have internalized the essence of existence: 1,161,240,000* or so people rise each morning, bathe, have a cup of tea and make their way to work, or school, or the shop where they gather to smoke and socialize. Or to the streets to beg.
****
Our tour of Old Delhi continues. As we pass the India Gate, otherwise known as the All India War Memorial, I gasp. – Next to us, a family of five is circling the round-about, top-speed, on a motor-bike. Papa is driving with a toddler in his lap; behind him, a small girl and her mother wrap their arms around each other and his waist; and on Mama’s back, in a wrap-around sling, is baby. I think back a year, before Avery Pearl was born, to my son-in-law, checking and double-checking his government-approved infant seat so he could safely bring his precious daughter home from the hospital…
I make myself concentrate on what Sammy is telling us about the Gate. It was constructed in 1921 to commemorate the seventy thousand Indian soldiers who perished in World War I. As India was under British rule then, the Army of India consisted of both the Indian and the British Armies in India, and was the military protector of the British Raj. In 1971, “Amar Jawan Jyoti” was added under the original arch to honor the Indian Jawans who gave their lives during the Indo-Pak War of 1971…
Our next stop is a World Heritage Site, the Red Fort. Sammy pulls to the curbside near the main entrance. He will wait if we want to tour, but suggests that if we want to see other places of interest, we may want to postpone, as it usually takes a minimum of 3 hours to walk through the grounds and buildings. I can understand why. The Fort is an immense irregular octagon with two main gates, the Lahori and the Delhi. The walls and gates of the structure are the striking red sandstone that is such a favored building material in this Northern Indian state. We won’t have an opportunity to see for ourselves, but Sammy explains that the many halls and palaces inside are built largely of Indian marble. Next visit, I promise myself, along with the Taj Mahal. Sammy sends us off with the instructions to "watch for pick-pockets, and meet me back here in 30 minutes".
****
“Americans!” As we exit the car, we can literally hear the murmur pass through the group of peddlers waiting at the entranceway.
“Mrs. Mrs? You like to see my books to remember your visit to the Red Fort?”
“No, no thank you.” I duck away, and he pursues. “But these are good pictures, see?”
“Yes I do. But I have my own camera.”
“Then I take a picture of you and your husband in front of the Red Fort with your camera. My time only 10 rupee.”
I gesture no, and in turning, bump into a young, bearded boy. “Raj beard. Only 5 rupee.” I stare at him dumbly. On his display board are a variety of fake beards, all in the style of mid-eighteenth century Indian royalty. “Put on you. See?”
“No put on me. No thank you, sweetheart.” I fish in my back-pack for a granola bar. His face crumples when I hand it to him.
“Namaste, Mrs.”, he whispers as he walks away. I look after him for about 20 seconds and when I turn around, there stands a tall, smiling slender man who, it turns out, is the same one we initially encountered at the gate. He has traded his postcard books for a box of toy “putt-putts”. (A putt-putt is a 3-wheeled, diesel-driven, open taxi. A very popular and cheap way to travel around town in India.)
“For your grandson, Mrs. 20 rupee. Is a deal?”
“No, sir, no deal. No thank you.” I am getting exasperated. We have spent about 15 minutes and have only traveled 50 feet into the courtyard. I content myself with snapping a few pictures of the Fort from this distance. Tim buys a photo book for 10 rupees to silence the man and we run, literally, back to the safety of Sammy and his cool, clean car.
I want to see India. I want to experience India. But -- I am tired, already, of this endless pursuit.
* As of the March 2009 official census. Note that this is a population increase of almost 932 million people since the previous census of January 2008. (1,129,888,000) I think, perhaps, there is a little love-making going on, too.
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