Taking the last walk on the hillside, seeing the hazy, opaque city before me covered in the smog and pollution of constant growth with the foothills barely recognizable, hearing the pounding piano, dissonant guitars and instrumentals of the Velvet Underground, I still cannot fathom it is the last day that I reside in Pune. The city that I have called home, albeit sporadically, for the past four months. Beside me on the hilltop was a herd of cattle with brightly painted horns and chiming bells, quietly and effortlessly eating grass. Looking out at the vast city with no discernable horizon and turning back to the herd of cow, the juxtaposition of tradition and modernization was never more apparent. Never before have I been in a city where a shining, brand-new Mercedes has to dodge farm animals on the street. Never will I have the opportunity to take rickshaws daily, despite the occasional pestering because of the valas, to class. May never get the chance to eat the most scrumptious, greasiest, fried potato sandwiches for only chump-change and be full to the point of incapacitation. Will miss surprising shopkeepers and food-venders with the most basic Marathi that I can muster. Nowhere else will I get the opportunity to partake in such a variety of delectable, vegetarian dishes, with spice and flavor of few comparisons, which has kept my palate from desiring meat for the past four months (with the exception of fish). Few places can I travel and see a country on the precipice of such change, of economic expansion, of personal accumulation, of rapid development. Of such contrast and paradox.
On the whole, through all the ebb and flow, India has lived up its reputation. Pune stands as representation of all the growth, both economic and personal, which consumes the mentality of most people in India these days. Home to one of the largest universities in the world, the city contains a burgeoning bourgeois that eagerly express their newfound capital. Adjacent to the entrance of the University, under the concrete pillars of the expressway, lies a group of people that call the streets home. Each day on the commute to school, while waiting in the rickshaw at the intersection, the three of us are come face to face with at least a couple children, just kids, whose dirty faces serve as reminder of the more neglected parts of Indian society. Their request is simple enough, for any spare change or food, and if they receive it, they quietly move on to the next vehicle. For initial month, we were told by the program not to give the beggars anything, regardless of their age or circumstances. Hearing this was one thing, but witnessing on a daily basis is another. You come to a point of desensitization, of impassivity when you hear the pleas of the child but there is an internal presence that you cannot ignore, calling your attention and sympathy, clawing at your insides that maybe you can make a partial impact in this child’s life. But as an outsider, you are caught in a paradox. Knowing of the extreme disparity in wealth and status, you acknowledge the futility that you may be helping one child but on the aggregate, your charity means nothing. There a billion people in this country. As the entire world (and all of human history), there will always be a divide between the rich and poor. Poverty in America can be just as crippling for an individual as it is in India. The difference though is it is not as apparent stateside as it is here. Because of this, you always have the dichotomy in your mind on whether you should give or not.
Leaving tomorrow for a month of travel after leaving in Pune for the past four months, I realize the privilege of being a white foreigner who has the capability and capital to be a guest in this country. It is a position that I am both humbled and grateful for. This has meant that, at times, India has produced contradictory feelings for me. I compare to what I know even though I know this leads to biased interpretation. As much as I try to negate this understanding, within the moment, especially one of unfamiliarity, irritability or uncertainty, I think and react the way I do. I cannot help always but India has taught me patience is a necessity in all situations. Anyone who is remain insistently organized and methodological, this is not the country for you. As the expression goes, you have to go with the flow of it, and India personifies this mentality. Being here has truly made me less insistent and more flexible about timing, about transportation and of expectations.
Saying goodbye to my host family and finally leaving Pune is the point where I will acknowledge that I no longer reside in this city. By leaving, I will not have the somewhat stability and familiarity that I have grown accustomed to, replaced by a sense of travel and adventure. This is the mentality that I came to India with: a desire to explore, observe, interact and connect. Throughout my time here, I have tried to follow this mindset as much as I could but during semester time certain barriers arise that are not always apt for it. A month of unrestricted travel will allow for such. No constraints (finances aside) remain, meaning all that is before me are open landscapes and serene beaches. Let the good times roll.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Visions
The idea that I would update my blog weekly hasn't occurred for awhile. With the last travel break and the increasing amount of work at school has prevented blogging time. This might be an excuse too because I have adopted a similar attitude of deference that many Indians do themselves, meaning that my tendency to procrastinate is worse here. Not a bad thing, means I am able to see more of the country and enhance my experience here, just the problem arises when it comes to school work and modes of communication. Enough of explanation, here is the new post, plus pictures.
Coming back to Pune after two weeks of traveling is quite the transition. It allows for realization about the multitude of diversity contained within the boundaries of India. A single language, ethnic group, or cultural similarities does not define the country. It defies most of the common definitions of a country in the typical academic or vernacular language. Today India is at a crossroads of tradition juxtaposed to the rampant modernization and globalization its infrastructure. Still the history of the countless civilizations, castes and religions matters a great deal of the people of India.
Regardless of the apparent differences of language, region and customs, the people of India unite under the banner of democracy and allegiance to their country. The other night, during the time I showed photos from the two-week trip to my host family, my host father began to discuss the importance of having an Indian identity and what it means. We discussed how the varying states of India represent more countries in themselves than the typical definition of a country. The states of India represent much greater heritage and tradition than the states of America. The diversity contained within the states of India is more than the United States. My host father stated how each state was unique in its tradition, language, and customs but regardless of these differences, each state was unified and supportive in identifying as Indian. During the two-week trip, there were countless indicators of this diversity. Besides the linguistic differences, each state had its own style of dress, traditional industry, food recipes and architecture.
For a few days, we went to Amritsar and saw the Golden Temple. It is the equivalent to Sikhs as Mecca is for Muslims but within this sacred sight anyone, regardless of caste, status, gender, age or nationality, is welcome. Seeing the Golden Temple for the first time a night was an awe-inspiring reflection, to see the tranquility of the reflection, to hear the reverberating chanting of the hymnbook, and to wait in line with the throngs of devotees. The following day went to the cafeteria for a free meal, and came during the lunch rush so it made quite the impression upon the initial entry. Most days of the week, the cafeteria feeds about 10,000 mouths but during the weekend, this number can grow to as much as 100, 000 people. Volunteers do the entire process, and actually the entire running of the Golden Temple complex. It is part of the mantra of Sikhism to work earnestly and selflessly towards the end of the caste system and to remove the social barriers of status, gender and age that divides us. At the cafeteria, everyone eats as an equal. It is a amazing thing to see.
All that is needed to continually run the complex and feed the many mouths that come to the cafeteria are donations and volunteer time. On the second day, after another delicious meal, we had the possibly to volunteer in part of the cleanup process. A huge area with several rows of large sliver tubs for cleaning filled the room. It is a systematic process, each row represents a different stage of cleaning, first the scrubbing then the washing. Alayna, Aisha and I joined in washing the dishes to ensure the cleanliness of the dishes. The older Indian women across from else were as diligent and efficient in cleaning as a predator does in catching its prey. But they were full of slight smiles and congenial, acknowledging the language barrier but overcoming it in their demeanor. It did not take long to realize the process of washing the dishes and handing them to the next row.
It seemed like most people volunteered the entire day, presenting their time for the larger good of giving. So the hour we gave paled in comparison but allowed for insight nonetheless. Outside the Golden Temple, social constraints still exist. However, within the complex, everyone remains as one, which is somewhat analogous to identifying as Indian, allowing for a unified country regardless of the historic, political, and social differences. It creates a vibrant, diverse, and representative country with a strong democratic voice of the people regardless of their origins.
More pictures and stories of the two week break will come, but enjoy these for now:
Coming back to Pune after two weeks of traveling is quite the transition. It allows for realization about the multitude of diversity contained within the boundaries of India. A single language, ethnic group, or cultural similarities does not define the country. It defies most of the common definitions of a country in the typical academic or vernacular language. Today India is at a crossroads of tradition juxtaposed to the rampant modernization and globalization its infrastructure. Still the history of the countless civilizations, castes and religions matters a great deal of the people of India.
Regardless of the apparent differences of language, region and customs, the people of India unite under the banner of democracy and allegiance to their country. The other night, during the time I showed photos from the two-week trip to my host family, my host father began to discuss the importance of having an Indian identity and what it means. We discussed how the varying states of India represent more countries in themselves than the typical definition of a country. The states of India represent much greater heritage and tradition than the states of America. The diversity contained within the states of India is more than the United States. My host father stated how each state was unique in its tradition, language, and customs but regardless of these differences, each state was unified and supportive in identifying as Indian. During the two-week trip, there were countless indicators of this diversity. Besides the linguistic differences, each state had its own style of dress, traditional industry, food recipes and architecture.
For a few days, we went to Amritsar and saw the Golden Temple. It is the equivalent to Sikhs as Mecca is for Muslims but within this sacred sight anyone, regardless of caste, status, gender, age or nationality, is welcome. Seeing the Golden Temple for the first time a night was an awe-inspiring reflection, to see the tranquility of the reflection, to hear the reverberating chanting of the hymnbook, and to wait in line with the throngs of devotees. The following day went to the cafeteria for a free meal, and came during the lunch rush so it made quite the impression upon the initial entry. Most days of the week, the cafeteria feeds about 10,000 mouths but during the weekend, this number can grow to as much as 100, 000 people. Volunteers do the entire process, and actually the entire running of the Golden Temple complex. It is part of the mantra of Sikhism to work earnestly and selflessly towards the end of the caste system and to remove the social barriers of status, gender and age that divides us. At the cafeteria, everyone eats as an equal. It is a amazing thing to see.
All that is needed to continually run the complex and feed the many mouths that come to the cafeteria are donations and volunteer time. On the second day, after another delicious meal, we had the possibly to volunteer in part of the cleanup process. A huge area with several rows of large sliver tubs for cleaning filled the room. It is a systematic process, each row represents a different stage of cleaning, first the scrubbing then the washing. Alayna, Aisha and I joined in washing the dishes to ensure the cleanliness of the dishes. The older Indian women across from else were as diligent and efficient in cleaning as a predator does in catching its prey. But they were full of slight smiles and congenial, acknowledging the language barrier but overcoming it in their demeanor. It did not take long to realize the process of washing the dishes and handing them to the next row.
It seemed like most people volunteered the entire day, presenting their time for the larger good of giving. So the hour we gave paled in comparison but allowed for insight nonetheless. Outside the Golden Temple, social constraints still exist. However, within the complex, everyone remains as one, which is somewhat analogous to identifying as Indian, allowing for a unified country regardless of the historic, political, and social differences. It creates a vibrant, diverse, and representative country with a strong democratic voice of the people regardless of their origins.
More pictures and stories of the two week break will come, but enjoy these for now:
Sunday, October 3, 2010
It's The Sun
Monsoon season has supposedly ended and now the heat wave arrives. The entire month of October will reach higher temperatures than the hottest week of the summer in Wisconsin. It’s not the type of sun you prefer. It is the malicious one that beats down upon you, the object in the sky that blinds so much that one cannot even look at it for more than a mere tenth of a second. The type of sun directly in the middle of the sky that does not seem to change its position until it sets at the end of the day. One cannot help but perspire to unprecedented amounts here, to the point where you clothes are soaked as you just had been through a rain shower. Interesting to see the sweat patterns each person forms, as it was a collection of Rorschach blots. Looks like you have a graphic tee after a long walk or bike ride.
The sun is getting to me in other ways as well, zapping my energy and capability. It just so happens that the hottest month of the time I am here coincides with the intermediary time. It has a compounding effect. The full semester mentality, one I usually get by the third week of the term back at school, has not set in entirely. It seems that my surroundings are a better illustration of the material than the lectures of class.
To actually witness the cultural subtleties and processes of living in a household is an experience that many are deprived from when they study abroad. It can be an ambivalent situation at times when the adjustment to the household dynamics is still continuing. But that is how it should be, something where I have to adjust. If there were not an initial level of unfamiliarity than it would detract from the larger experience. For the first time in my college career, I am living back in a household until which I have to conform to certain expectations and understandings. It places slight limitations of the previous uninhibited independence of which I had enjoyed.
But the compromise, exchange and experience of living with my host family are beyond making the small sacrifice. To wake up every morning and have breakfast prepared, to partake conversations at the dinner table about the same issues that I am learning about in class, to learn about all the ingredients and spices that go into all the heavenly meals my aai (host mother) makes, and to use the small amount of Marathi that I know in the proper setting.
Sometimes my host family can be so fictionalized that they might as well be television characters. Ramesh, my baba (host father), is like a more congenial Archie Bunker from All in the Family. His favorite sayings are “Correct!” with so much enthusiasm and pride that he seems to be an expert on the multitude of topics we discuss. He maintains that the area of Pune we live in is the cleanest and least polluted, for both air and noise, by stating “his air…” When you say something to his liking, he shakes his head in agreement with such a slight head-turn and squinting eyes that look as though his is a moment of blissful mediation.
My aai is entirely the grandmother type, full of proverbs, wit and above all, a supreme cook. Her life revolves around the household, which she commands regardless of the supposed patriarchy. Aai has a cheery, full-hearted laugh that is brought out when I have my moments of cultural misinterpretation or occasional spastic tendencies. Her small snaggle-tooth completes her genuine smile, and she is always dressing up in her colorful saris even though she rarely leaves the house unless it’s for a special occasion. She remains me of the grandmother from Hey Arnold, just less impulsive and crazy, like the snow day episode.
My host sister, Preeti, is the main income earner in the family since both my host parents are retired. She works long hours and lives a consumptive lifestyle but she has her good intentions. Her personality is kind of opposite of the meaning of her name, which is Marathi means love. But she remains confident of herself in all situations, sometimes to the extreme. As when I was in the car with the complete family and she had a fits of road rage. I was just sitting in the backseat and this car in front of us would not move out of the way. Seeing drivers in Pune while walking down the street is already erratic enough but when it comes to being it the car, it’s an entirely different experience. Preeti proceeded to roll down her window, and began using very expletive in Marahti. Then, the baba and aai joined in as I sat in the backseat, tried and just wide-eyed. Quite the introduction to the drivers of Pune.
All the times with my host family have been a fascinating moment of cultural observation and adaptation. Its unlike the times I have had with family and friends back in the state but the core of the moment there is some internal familiarity in being around the family dynamic. A sense which is a nice separation and departure from the my college time back in the States.
The sun is getting to me in other ways as well, zapping my energy and capability. It just so happens that the hottest month of the time I am here coincides with the intermediary time. It has a compounding effect. The full semester mentality, one I usually get by the third week of the term back at school, has not set in entirely. It seems that my surroundings are a better illustration of the material than the lectures of class.
To actually witness the cultural subtleties and processes of living in a household is an experience that many are deprived from when they study abroad. It can be an ambivalent situation at times when the adjustment to the household dynamics is still continuing. But that is how it should be, something where I have to adjust. If there were not an initial level of unfamiliarity than it would detract from the larger experience. For the first time in my college career, I am living back in a household until which I have to conform to certain expectations and understandings. It places slight limitations of the previous uninhibited independence of which I had enjoyed.
But the compromise, exchange and experience of living with my host family are beyond making the small sacrifice. To wake up every morning and have breakfast prepared, to partake conversations at the dinner table about the same issues that I am learning about in class, to learn about all the ingredients and spices that go into all the heavenly meals my aai (host mother) makes, and to use the small amount of Marathi that I know in the proper setting.
Sometimes my host family can be so fictionalized that they might as well be television characters. Ramesh, my baba (host father), is like a more congenial Archie Bunker from All in the Family. His favorite sayings are “Correct!” with so much enthusiasm and pride that he seems to be an expert on the multitude of topics we discuss. He maintains that the area of Pune we live in is the cleanest and least polluted, for both air and noise, by stating “his air…” When you say something to his liking, he shakes his head in agreement with such a slight head-turn and squinting eyes that look as though his is a moment of blissful mediation.
My aai is entirely the grandmother type, full of proverbs, wit and above all, a supreme cook. Her life revolves around the household, which she commands regardless of the supposed patriarchy. Aai has a cheery, full-hearted laugh that is brought out when I have my moments of cultural misinterpretation or occasional spastic tendencies. Her small snaggle-tooth completes her genuine smile, and she is always dressing up in her colorful saris even though she rarely leaves the house unless it’s for a special occasion. She remains me of the grandmother from Hey Arnold, just less impulsive and crazy, like the snow day episode.
My host sister, Preeti, is the main income earner in the family since both my host parents are retired. She works long hours and lives a consumptive lifestyle but she has her good intentions. Her personality is kind of opposite of the meaning of her name, which is Marathi means love. But she remains confident of herself in all situations, sometimes to the extreme. As when I was in the car with the complete family and she had a fits of road rage. I was just sitting in the backseat and this car in front of us would not move out of the way. Seeing drivers in Pune while walking down the street is already erratic enough but when it comes to being it the car, it’s an entirely different experience. Preeti proceeded to roll down her window, and began using very expletive in Marahti. Then, the baba and aai joined in as I sat in the backseat, tried and just wide-eyed. Quite the introduction to the drivers of Pune.
All the times with my host family have been a fascinating moment of cultural observation and adaptation. Its unlike the times I have had with family and friends back in the state but the core of the moment there is some internal familiarity in being around the family dynamic. A sense which is a nice separation and departure from the my college time back in the States.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
It Ain't No Joke
India is quite the experience. The realization that in the span of five months of being here I will see more of the country than my host family has seen in the entirety of their 70 years has set in. This is a humbling and privileged position. Privilege out of being a foreigner, a Westerner, whiteness and a participant in a such a program as ACM.
As October approaches, the other realization is I now have resided in Pune for the past six weeks. The summer progressed, and I maintained a certain surrealist mentality that India was approaching. Now, there has been a carryover affect. The initial impression of being in India that was instantaneous upon arrival in the Mumbai airport exists still. It’s become almost cliché to say, but I still cannot believe that India is my current place of residence.
Although I have had many of the same dishes served to me countless of times, I have not [yet…] gotten sick of having Indian food. There is enough variety in spices, combinations and ingredients that the list of dishes, even only those of Maharashtra, seems like an endless selection. Traveling throughout the state, I have been served the local specialties, such as potato bhaji (mixed vegetables) or fried dal, found nowhere else in India. Even within the castes of Maharashtra, the approach to food is resoundingly different. For example, chapati, a wheat bread similar to a thinner tortilla, is prepared uniquely depending on which household you visit. Thus, any Indian dish I have been served contains enough subtlety to confuse my tastebuds (plus, not really remembering the names of the dishes in the first place probably helps too).
The food I crave, such as hummus, kabob or a juicy-lucy, are fare that I have only been introduced to within the last year or so. The food of my childhood, such as a cheeseburger or potato salad, though always good for nostalgia, is commonplace according to my tastes and memories. A plethora of food options is always a good thing, and such is the reason why Indian food still has yet to disappoint.
As October approaches, the other realization is I now have resided in Pune for the past six weeks. The summer progressed, and I maintained a certain surrealist mentality that India was approaching. Now, there has been a carryover affect. The initial impression of being in India that was instantaneous upon arrival in the Mumbai airport exists still. It’s become almost cliché to say, but I still cannot believe that India is my current place of residence.
Although I have had many of the same dishes served to me countless of times, I have not [yet…] gotten sick of having Indian food. There is enough variety in spices, combinations and ingredients that the list of dishes, even only those of Maharashtra, seems like an endless selection. Traveling throughout the state, I have been served the local specialties, such as potato bhaji (mixed vegetables) or fried dal, found nowhere else in India. Even within the castes of Maharashtra, the approach to food is resoundingly different. For example, chapati, a wheat bread similar to a thinner tortilla, is prepared uniquely depending on which household you visit. Thus, any Indian dish I have been served contains enough subtlety to confuse my tastebuds (plus, not really remembering the names of the dishes in the first place probably helps too).
The food I crave, such as hummus, kabob or a juicy-lucy, are fare that I have only been introduced to within the last year or so. The food of my childhood, such as a cheeseburger or potato salad, though always good for nostalgia, is commonplace according to my tastes and memories. A plethora of food options is always a good thing, and such is the reason why Indian food still has yet to disappoint.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
P.Y.T
Oh the transcendence that MJ himself can bring to a situation, and he was just the smallest portion of the conversation and events of this past weekend (more on this later).
It was another weekend away from the city, going to an ancient hillside retreat known as Bhimashankar. , The large throngs of pilgrims to the Shiva temple were not there since it is festival season celebrating Ganesh (which ends tomorrow in an unprecedented 36 hours display of processions, dancing and pure jubilee). After waiting an arduous two hours at the bus depot in Pune and hearing constant misinformation from various bus drivers and counter personnel about the location and timing of the bus, the decrepit carrier pulled into the bus stall. It seemed like it should have been taken out of commission ten years ago but some sort of miracle keep the bus in running order and regardless of the potholes, torrid air, torrential downpour and the gross breach of weight limits, it got us to our destination in a timely manner. Guess the thing about drivers in India, especially those in public transportation, like perpetual motion, so despite the varying gradient and turns of the road, it didn’t seem like there was much change in speed.
We entered Bhimashankar after the sun had set, and an eerily fog, which would not have been out of place in an Alfred Hitchcock film, rolled in. As soon as we got off the bus, Hasselhoft, Alayna and I were surrounded by suitors offering a variety of services, from personal guides to inquiring about the accommodations of the night. Since we did not have the latter and did not want to trek back the five kilometers to the more established hotel, we asked to see the rooms these guys were offering. As the faint rain feel, we followed the two of the guys, who seemed congenial enough, down a market-alleyway. Our first prospect was across from a restaurant; it was a double room with a sheet-metal roof and a back area that we were told not to enter. The second prospect was up an emergency staircase and contained low ceilings with half as many beds. Mainly on account of the door width, we went with the first prospect since it was an actual door (with a double-lock) instead of plywood.
Ordering dinner was surprisingly good considering the menu was only in Marathi and one of the few words we could identified was masala, or spicy. We got three dishes ending with masala. It was a delicious choice.
We then retreated for the night, and slept decent considering the bed and pillow was stiff as a leather ottoman. It was not until the next morning that I was disturbed from my restful slumber by the odd (or maybe common) mixture of arguing over some business transaction, a blaring television, and fighting children. With it being seven am, I was even more delusional than my typical morning state.
The previous night we all agreed to get an early start to the day, as so we could take full advantage of our limited hours since we had to take the evening bus back to Pune. We eat a delectable assortment of deep-fried, spicy vegetable balls prepared right before our eyes, and then found a guide to take us around the neighboring hills. As we slowly descended into the jungle, the two signs of civilization was the array of plastic bags, broken sandals and food wrappers choking the creek and the groups of people we encountered. After another hour of hiking, we got past the impediments and started to realize that we were in an actual jungle, having to cross the river at more than one intersection point and seeing the dense canopy and greenery around us. The first stop was a beautiful waterfall, with high boulders and smooth enough bedrock that we were able to get under the fall itself.
The subsequent stop was the highest mountain point around the town. It took an additional two hours and a steep gradient, about the most intense hiking we could accomplish considering our footwear, to trek there. Before reaching the top the of ridge, as we took a short break on the plateau, our guide spotted some rustling in the nearby forest, and uttered the words jaguar….however, it ended up being just a herd of cattle foraging for some sweet grass.
We then descended to the top where we felt as if we at the edge of the world. Before us was a sheer drop, unassumingly covered in a plethora of wildflowers, and a wide green valley before us, unexploited in habitation or ugliness. It was one of those places in nature where nothing could enhance the view because it was already picturesque enough.
Directly afterwards, Vishal, our guide, invited us over to his house, declaring we must meet his entire family and eat after such a strenuous hike. In our state, we could not say no. Vishal’s village was a short bus ride away, and upon arrival, he stated we needed a chicken for the special occasion. We purchased a fresh one from the village market, and began the walk to his house. There, we meet his wife and youngest son, who was just about two years old. He had the most disinterested look on his baby face, maybe it was because we were all trying to do the baby face.
We sat in the cool, dimly lit kitchen as Vishal prepared the chicken. Not to go into detail, but it was quite the experience to see such meat primed right before you. As the chicken cooked, Vishal continued his hospitability by filling his house with a familiar smell. He then proceeded to show us the wonderful climbing tree in back, and with his two other sons, we climbed the many branches.
Before the feast was served, we got to interact with his young sons more. At first they were timid, but as we spoke broken Marathi and helped them a little with their English exercise book, they took an increased liking to us. David pulled out his playing cards, and I got out my iPod. From a previous conversation with Vishal, he stated he only knew (liked?) Michael Jackson out of all famous musicians in the world so I decided to play some for his eldest son. It takes awhile for someone to warm up to a particular beat but MJ proves to be infectious. The oldest one starting dancing a little, and then upon the crying of the youngest son, his brother decided to show him MJ. Thus, started the laughter cause the kid demonstrated not a look of indifference but confusion, then a smile.
Eating chicken at Vishal’s was the one time I have broken my attempted vegetarianism in India. It was within in that moment that I did not doubt it. All that unfolded that day was complete spontaneity and that was the beauty of the day. I came to Bhimashankar with a purpose but no expectations. I was more than thoroughly rewarded.
[More pictures to come]
It was another weekend away from the city, going to an ancient hillside retreat known as Bhimashankar. , The large throngs of pilgrims to the Shiva temple were not there since it is festival season celebrating Ganesh (which ends tomorrow in an unprecedented 36 hours display of processions, dancing and pure jubilee). After waiting an arduous two hours at the bus depot in Pune and hearing constant misinformation from various bus drivers and counter personnel about the location and timing of the bus, the decrepit carrier pulled into the bus stall. It seemed like it should have been taken out of commission ten years ago but some sort of miracle keep the bus in running order and regardless of the potholes, torrid air, torrential downpour and the gross breach of weight limits, it got us to our destination in a timely manner. Guess the thing about drivers in India, especially those in public transportation, like perpetual motion, so despite the varying gradient and turns of the road, it didn’t seem like there was much change in speed.
We entered Bhimashankar after the sun had set, and an eerily fog, which would not have been out of place in an Alfred Hitchcock film, rolled in. As soon as we got off the bus, Hasselhoft, Alayna and I were surrounded by suitors offering a variety of services, from personal guides to inquiring about the accommodations of the night. Since we did not have the latter and did not want to trek back the five kilometers to the more established hotel, we asked to see the rooms these guys were offering. As the faint rain feel, we followed the two of the guys, who seemed congenial enough, down a market-alleyway. Our first prospect was across from a restaurant; it was a double room with a sheet-metal roof and a back area that we were told not to enter. The second prospect was up an emergency staircase and contained low ceilings with half as many beds. Mainly on account of the door width, we went with the first prospect since it was an actual door (with a double-lock) instead of plywood.
Ordering dinner was surprisingly good considering the menu was only in Marathi and one of the few words we could identified was masala, or spicy. We got three dishes ending with masala. It was a delicious choice.
We then retreated for the night, and slept decent considering the bed and pillow was stiff as a leather ottoman. It was not until the next morning that I was disturbed from my restful slumber by the odd (or maybe common) mixture of arguing over some business transaction, a blaring television, and fighting children. With it being seven am, I was even more delusional than my typical morning state.
The previous night we all agreed to get an early start to the day, as so we could take full advantage of our limited hours since we had to take the evening bus back to Pune. We eat a delectable assortment of deep-fried, spicy vegetable balls prepared right before our eyes, and then found a guide to take us around the neighboring hills. As we slowly descended into the jungle, the two signs of civilization was the array of plastic bags, broken sandals and food wrappers choking the creek and the groups of people we encountered. After another hour of hiking, we got past the impediments and started to realize that we were in an actual jungle, having to cross the river at more than one intersection point and seeing the dense canopy and greenery around us. The first stop was a beautiful waterfall, with high boulders and smooth enough bedrock that we were able to get under the fall itself.
The subsequent stop was the highest mountain point around the town. It took an additional two hours and a steep gradient, about the most intense hiking we could accomplish considering our footwear, to trek there. Before reaching the top the of ridge, as we took a short break on the plateau, our guide spotted some rustling in the nearby forest, and uttered the words jaguar….however, it ended up being just a herd of cattle foraging for some sweet grass.
We then descended to the top where we felt as if we at the edge of the world. Before us was a sheer drop, unassumingly covered in a plethora of wildflowers, and a wide green valley before us, unexploited in habitation or ugliness. It was one of those places in nature where nothing could enhance the view because it was already picturesque enough.
Directly afterwards, Vishal, our guide, invited us over to his house, declaring we must meet his entire family and eat after such a strenuous hike. In our state, we could not say no. Vishal’s village was a short bus ride away, and upon arrival, he stated we needed a chicken for the special occasion. We purchased a fresh one from the village market, and began the walk to his house. There, we meet his wife and youngest son, who was just about two years old. He had the most disinterested look on his baby face, maybe it was because we were all trying to do the baby face.
We sat in the cool, dimly lit kitchen as Vishal prepared the chicken. Not to go into detail, but it was quite the experience to see such meat primed right before you. As the chicken cooked, Vishal continued his hospitability by filling his house with a familiar smell. He then proceeded to show us the wonderful climbing tree in back, and with his two other sons, we climbed the many branches.
Before the feast was served, we got to interact with his young sons more. At first they were timid, but as we spoke broken Marathi and helped them a little with their English exercise book, they took an increased liking to us. David pulled out his playing cards, and I got out my iPod. From a previous conversation with Vishal, he stated he only knew (liked?) Michael Jackson out of all famous musicians in the world so I decided to play some for his eldest son. It takes awhile for someone to warm up to a particular beat but MJ proves to be infectious. The oldest one starting dancing a little, and then upon the crying of the youngest son, his brother decided to show him MJ. Thus, started the laughter cause the kid demonstrated not a look of indifference but confusion, then a smile.
Eating chicken at Vishal’s was the one time I have broken my attempted vegetarianism in India. It was within in that moment that I did not doubt it. All that unfolded that day was complete spontaneity and that was the beauty of the day. I came to Bhimashankar with a purpose but no expectations. I was more than thoroughly rewarded.
[More pictures to come]
Saturday, September 11, 2010
The vibrant color of a door found atop a mountain.
alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5515916454209273874" />My street, Panchavati.
The best fried onion dish I have had.
Some more of those great kids.
Start of the Festival Season
Today marks the beginning of the eleven-day celebration of Ganpati, which honors Ganesh, the deity of new journeys, prosperity, knowledge, and affluence. Especially in Maharashtra, people go all out for the festivities honoring the undisputed favorite Hindu god of this state. From what I have heard, the first day of celebrations is nothing compared to the revelry of the last day, which has drum-heavy processions set against an amalgamation of vibrant colors and dancing in the streets in other words: pure jubilee. If today serves as any sort of testament, then the last day will be an unprecedented sight to witness because seeing the local processions today indicated a level of enthusiasm and stamina that I have yet to see in any sort of concert back in the states.
The morning began with a trip to the market to choose a Ganesh idol and collect other things needed for the Ganpati shrine. Many bazaars were selling Ganeshs of varying sizes and styles of embellishment. The multitude of possible colors combinations, level of adornment, including metallic and day-glo selections, were endless.
A growing problem with the availability and affordability of the rising consumerism in India is that is now affects religious celebrations. Tradition dictates that Ganesh idols be made of clay, or muti, so that when they are brought to the rivers the idols may return to the earth. Nowadays, however, a decent portion of the Ganesh idols made are from plastic and other non-biodegradable materials; thus, furthering polluting the rivers and waterways of India that already have to deal with constant influx of debris and sewage.
As soon as our Ganesh idol was chosen, my host father, Ramesh, placed a silk scarf over its head, which is not to be removed until a welcoming ceremony upon entry into the household, Afterwards, my host family set up the shrine to Ganesh, complete with garlands, an offering of any five fruits, sliver family heirlooms depicting other Hindu gods and a plate of dyes of which Ganesh is christened with and from which every member of the household receives some sort of christening as well. Following the completion of the shrine, the ancient chats giving thanks, adoration and benevolence to Ganesh was sung. These are the same Sanskrit chants that were sung several thousand years ago.
After the commencement of Ganpati, extended family members came over to partake in the special festival food, consisting of masala bhat, or spicy rice, mixed veggies, chickpea soup, and the sweet, moduchk, which was the favorite treat of Ganesh. Yet again, the portion sizes were tremendous and regardless of my refusal of additional servings, the insistence of my host mother proves to be mightier.
A few hours and a short nap was needed directly after lunch to regain functionality again, and the timeframe coordinated perfectly with the local procession that was about to begin at my host cousins’ flat in the city. As everyone else in my family was situated, it was only my host sister and I that went. On the way there, we had a discussion of music that began about a Michael Jackson song since one of his was on the mix she was playing. In making small talk, I asked if she like his music, which to she responded that it was only this song of his because the rest of MJ’s music was too “hard rock.” Preeti, my host sister, stated her favorite genre was “soft rock,” which I guess in her definition included the Backstreet Boys, the Police and “Walk like an Egyptian” all of which were other songs on the mix.
At last, after listening of the oddest assortment of music I have heard in awhile, we arrived at just the right time because the procession was playing right in front of apartment building of my host cousin. We entered a sea of gigantic bass drums and the accompanying snare drums, heard the small section of tambourines, and the gong kept the entire ensemble together. All sixty or seventy so musicians belonged to the same band that had been practicing for the upcoming festivities for the past two months, several hours a day. Talk about synchronization, all the drummers were mirror-images of one another, wearing the same white suit with orange scarf blowing not because of a breeze but because of the enthusiasm. The only distinguishing aspect, besides the age and gender, was the passion each musician demonstrated. The college-aged ones jumped and turned as much as was physically possible with such a large drum; the look on the older faces was one of pure concentration and enjoyment; the youngest faces exhibited a level of zeal and sincerity that was unmatched by any others the crowd.
On the way home, to interrupt my host sister’s humming to “My Heart Will Go On” I asked about the demographics of the musicians, remarking how inclusive it was of both age and gender. Preeti stated the presence of many of the female musicians was new this year because in years prior the traditional notion that, in her words, “ it was the men that were thought to have the strength and stamina to last thru such demanding performances.” By the exhibition I saw, the women had just as much, and for some more, heart as, or then, the men demonstrated.
The morning began with a trip to the market to choose a Ganesh idol and collect other things needed for the Ganpati shrine. Many bazaars were selling Ganeshs of varying sizes and styles of embellishment. The multitude of possible colors combinations, level of adornment, including metallic and day-glo selections, were endless.
A growing problem with the availability and affordability of the rising consumerism in India is that is now affects religious celebrations. Tradition dictates that Ganesh idols be made of clay, or muti, so that when they are brought to the rivers the idols may return to the earth. Nowadays, however, a decent portion of the Ganesh idols made are from plastic and other non-biodegradable materials; thus, furthering polluting the rivers and waterways of India that already have to deal with constant influx of debris and sewage.
As soon as our Ganesh idol was chosen, my host father, Ramesh, placed a silk scarf over its head, which is not to be removed until a welcoming ceremony upon entry into the household, Afterwards, my host family set up the shrine to Ganesh, complete with garlands, an offering of any five fruits, sliver family heirlooms depicting other Hindu gods and a plate of dyes of which Ganesh is christened with and from which every member of the household receives some sort of christening as well. Following the completion of the shrine, the ancient chats giving thanks, adoration and benevolence to Ganesh was sung. These are the same Sanskrit chants that were sung several thousand years ago.
After the commencement of Ganpati, extended family members came over to partake in the special festival food, consisting of masala bhat, or spicy rice, mixed veggies, chickpea soup, and the sweet, moduchk, which was the favorite treat of Ganesh. Yet again, the portion sizes were tremendous and regardless of my refusal of additional servings, the insistence of my host mother proves to be mightier.
A few hours and a short nap was needed directly after lunch to regain functionality again, and the timeframe coordinated perfectly with the local procession that was about to begin at my host cousins’ flat in the city. As everyone else in my family was situated, it was only my host sister and I that went. On the way there, we had a discussion of music that began about a Michael Jackson song since one of his was on the mix she was playing. In making small talk, I asked if she like his music, which to she responded that it was only this song of his because the rest of MJ’s music was too “hard rock.” Preeti, my host sister, stated her favorite genre was “soft rock,” which I guess in her definition included the Backstreet Boys, the Police and “Walk like an Egyptian” all of which were other songs on the mix.
At last, after listening of the oddest assortment of music I have heard in awhile, we arrived at just the right time because the procession was playing right in front of apartment building of my host cousin. We entered a sea of gigantic bass drums and the accompanying snare drums, heard the small section of tambourines, and the gong kept the entire ensemble together. All sixty or seventy so musicians belonged to the same band that had been practicing for the upcoming festivities for the past two months, several hours a day. Talk about synchronization, all the drummers were mirror-images of one another, wearing the same white suit with orange scarf blowing not because of a breeze but because of the enthusiasm. The only distinguishing aspect, besides the age and gender, was the passion each musician demonstrated. The college-aged ones jumped and turned as much as was physically possible with such a large drum; the look on the older faces was one of pure concentration and enjoyment; the youngest faces exhibited a level of zeal and sincerity that was unmatched by any others the crowd.
On the way home, to interrupt my host sister’s humming to “My Heart Will Go On” I asked about the demographics of the musicians, remarking how inclusive it was of both age and gender. Preeti stated the presence of many of the female musicians was new this year because in years prior the traditional notion that, in her words, “ it was the men that were thought to have the strength and stamina to last thru such demanding performances.” By the exhibition I saw, the women had just as much, and for some more, heart as, or then, the men demonstrated.
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