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.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
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.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
gold soundz
Oh the sights and encounters this past weekend. This truly goes down as the best weekend thus far in India. This is the experience that I came here for.
It began as such a simple getaway, it was the end of orientation and an entire group trip was needed before the start of the semester. Getting two days off of classes and traveling to two of the most awe-inspiring, picturesque sites, the Ajanta and Ellora Caves, I have ever witnessed in my life translated into a more concrete understanding of the reasons on why I came to the India.
On the first day, we arrived bright and early by rickshaw for the departure to the caves. I was in a surprisingly energetic, alert mood considering I only received four hours of sleep the previous night. Seeing a fresh sun after four days of constant rain, coupled with the first weekend out of Pune, created more of an internal equilibrium and intrigue about the events in store for the weekend than I could articulate. The bus we boarded was an odd mix of diarrhea brown and burnt orange with a weathered exterior and more haphazard interior. As we pulled away from the program office and the deafening air of the open windows on the highway became apparent, I knew it would be an advantageous weekend away from the hectic nature of the city.
The six-hour bus ride, full of bumps and dislodged objects hurdling towards the ground from the many open backpacks, was inhospitable to napping but the change of scenery provided more than an adequate compromise. Before we neared our final destination, we stopped over at an ancient fort about thirty kilometers from the Ajanta and Ellora Caves. The hilltop fort rose out of the landscape as if it were a sailboat riding atop perilous waves. The fort itself contained all the features associated with such an imposing structure: two moats, a surrounding barricade of interspersing walls and defensive positions, a strategic location, and a dark labyrinth to the trap unassuming attackers. The designers of the fort also happened to be genius with their inconspicuous additions to the architecture, including slanted walls and a tripping stone to further impede any sort of opponent. Another great surprise was the many monkeys chasing one another up and down the walls of the fort, having an uncanny ability to jump the many meters between the trees and surrounding structures. It also served as the first time that I have seen monkeys out of captivity.
The next day only enhanced the enjoyment of the weekend, as we ventured down the same observation point that a British solider took as he chased a tiger and stumbled upon the location of the Ajanta caves. Made up of the about thirty caves dug into solid rock presented as a gift by an ancient Mughal emperor so the wandering Buddhist monks would have permanent place of worship during the torrential monsoon seasons, the Ajanta caves do not follow a set pattern of design. Each cave varies tremendously in both size and ornamentation, some remain unfinished, others serve as a haunting shell of their previous embellishment. Many caves are dedicated to telling the life story of the Buddha. The murals still intact resembled the realism and vibrancy of some of the Renaissance paintings I have seen in history books. Until it was ‘discovered’ again by the British solider in the mid-1800s, the site did not fascinate the locals so essentially it was ‘lost’ to the folk mythology of the surrounding area.
On the last day of our travel weekend, we walked to the nearby Ellora caves, a site that our hotel overlooked. The caves at Ellora did not have same level of protection against congestation and erosion that the Ajanta ones had, which prohibited all vehicles in the vicinity and required all incoming tourists to take an environmentally green bus down to the valley containing the caves. As it was a Saturday and we were a large group of young white kids, we attracted quite the crowds at the exquisite temple, known as cave sixteen. Being such an anomaly and curiosity, we hired a second ‘guide’ that made the large amounts of people concentrating near us dissipate. It was the equivalent as if we were some C-list celebrity in America. Regardless of the surrounding attention, the level of detail and craftsmanship at the Ellora caves was an unprecedented level of beauty. The larger temple was dedicated to telling the story of Shiva, the destroyer deity in Hinduism, and his attempts to win over his love, Pavati. Some of the cave contained idol-worshipping denomination of Buddhism but regardless of the religious affiliation, many of the caves contained figures about as tall as the fifteen foot ceiling.
After lunch at our nearby hotel, we ventured back to the Ellora caves to go hiking in the hills surrounding the caves. After passing the huge waterfall of the park and a small herd of water buffalo, we stumbled upon a residential community atop on of the hills. The quest for exploration was strong, and after we gazed down into the valley, we noticed the dilapidated stone temples covered in mossy green on the left-hand side. There was not just one, but three we could see in the general vicinity. As we ventured to the closest one, the calls and cheers of a group of four boys caught our attention. At first glance we waved hello and continued on our way, but they ran to join us. A boy in a blue shirt, presenting us with his newest dance moves, proceeded to tell us his name was Abara. He spoke English well, and as we tried our fragmentary Marathi the more shy boys laughed, introducing themselves as well. From then one, it was pure spontaneity upon where the boys took us. It was instant joking and inquisitiveness, a moment of true bliss that we meet them. They took us to meet one of the boy’s mothers, who could not have been more than our age and used English terms more as concepts and less structured. Almost immediately, there was an influx of children, probably about twelve kids ranging in age from less than a year to no older than ten years, and a couple mothers from the household. The quick introduction lead to instant festivity because of the cameras we had out. Neither the kids nor the mothers could get enough of the photo taking and sharing. It was a moment of true bliss, seeing the most genuine smiles and reactions I have witnessed in this country. Using my copy of To Kill a Mockingbird as a paper, the mother shared her wish in receiving a ‘return photo’ of the vivid encounters we all just enjoyed and embraced by writing down her address. Unfortunately so, it was not legible or specific enough to send it exactly to her but as the spontaneity of the situation demonstrates there are possible means to get such a simple thing to a family that would enjoy the lasting image of the grateful day.
As we left, we heard the Muslim call to pray from the mosque down the street and later learned that when we got back to the hotel the area we ventured to is a Muslim community. It is this departure from the city than truly makes for the experience here in India.
It began as such a simple getaway, it was the end of orientation and an entire group trip was needed before the start of the semester. Getting two days off of classes and traveling to two of the most awe-inspiring, picturesque sites, the Ajanta and Ellora Caves, I have ever witnessed in my life translated into a more concrete understanding of the reasons on why I came to the India.
On the first day, we arrived bright and early by rickshaw for the departure to the caves. I was in a surprisingly energetic, alert mood considering I only received four hours of sleep the previous night. Seeing a fresh sun after four days of constant rain, coupled with the first weekend out of Pune, created more of an internal equilibrium and intrigue about the events in store for the weekend than I could articulate. The bus we boarded was an odd mix of diarrhea brown and burnt orange with a weathered exterior and more haphazard interior. As we pulled away from the program office and the deafening air of the open windows on the highway became apparent, I knew it would be an advantageous weekend away from the hectic nature of the city.
The six-hour bus ride, full of bumps and dislodged objects hurdling towards the ground from the many open backpacks, was inhospitable to napping but the change of scenery provided more than an adequate compromise. Before we neared our final destination, we stopped over at an ancient fort about thirty kilometers from the Ajanta and Ellora Caves. The hilltop fort rose out of the landscape as if it were a sailboat riding atop perilous waves. The fort itself contained all the features associated with such an imposing structure: two moats, a surrounding barricade of interspersing walls and defensive positions, a strategic location, and a dark labyrinth to the trap unassuming attackers. The designers of the fort also happened to be genius with their inconspicuous additions to the architecture, including slanted walls and a tripping stone to further impede any sort of opponent. Another great surprise was the many monkeys chasing one another up and down the walls of the fort, having an uncanny ability to jump the many meters between the trees and surrounding structures. It also served as the first time that I have seen monkeys out of captivity.
The next day only enhanced the enjoyment of the weekend, as we ventured down the same observation point that a British solider took as he chased a tiger and stumbled upon the location of the Ajanta caves. Made up of the about thirty caves dug into solid rock presented as a gift by an ancient Mughal emperor so the wandering Buddhist monks would have permanent place of worship during the torrential monsoon seasons, the Ajanta caves do not follow a set pattern of design. Each cave varies tremendously in both size and ornamentation, some remain unfinished, others serve as a haunting shell of their previous embellishment. Many caves are dedicated to telling the life story of the Buddha. The murals still intact resembled the realism and vibrancy of some of the Renaissance paintings I have seen in history books. Until it was ‘discovered’ again by the British solider in the mid-1800s, the site did not fascinate the locals so essentially it was ‘lost’ to the folk mythology of the surrounding area.
On the last day of our travel weekend, we walked to the nearby Ellora caves, a site that our hotel overlooked. The caves at Ellora did not have same level of protection against congestation and erosion that the Ajanta ones had, which prohibited all vehicles in the vicinity and required all incoming tourists to take an environmentally green bus down to the valley containing the caves. As it was a Saturday and we were a large group of young white kids, we attracted quite the crowds at the exquisite temple, known as cave sixteen. Being such an anomaly and curiosity, we hired a second ‘guide’ that made the large amounts of people concentrating near us dissipate. It was the equivalent as if we were some C-list celebrity in America. Regardless of the surrounding attention, the level of detail and craftsmanship at the Ellora caves was an unprecedented level of beauty. The larger temple was dedicated to telling the story of Shiva, the destroyer deity in Hinduism, and his attempts to win over his love, Pavati. Some of the cave contained idol-worshipping denomination of Buddhism but regardless of the religious affiliation, many of the caves contained figures about as tall as the fifteen foot ceiling.
After lunch at our nearby hotel, we ventured back to the Ellora caves to go hiking in the hills surrounding the caves. After passing the huge waterfall of the park and a small herd of water buffalo, we stumbled upon a residential community atop on of the hills. The quest for exploration was strong, and after we gazed down into the valley, we noticed the dilapidated stone temples covered in mossy green on the left-hand side. There was not just one, but three we could see in the general vicinity. As we ventured to the closest one, the calls and cheers of a group of four boys caught our attention. At first glance we waved hello and continued on our way, but they ran to join us. A boy in a blue shirt, presenting us with his newest dance moves, proceeded to tell us his name was Abara. He spoke English well, and as we tried our fragmentary Marathi the more shy boys laughed, introducing themselves as well. From then one, it was pure spontaneity upon where the boys took us. It was instant joking and inquisitiveness, a moment of true bliss that we meet them. They took us to meet one of the boy’s mothers, who could not have been more than our age and used English terms more as concepts and less structured. Almost immediately, there was an influx of children, probably about twelve kids ranging in age from less than a year to no older than ten years, and a couple mothers from the household. The quick introduction lead to instant festivity because of the cameras we had out. Neither the kids nor the mothers could get enough of the photo taking and sharing. It was a moment of true bliss, seeing the most genuine smiles and reactions I have witnessed in this country. Using my copy of To Kill a Mockingbird as a paper, the mother shared her wish in receiving a ‘return photo’ of the vivid encounters we all just enjoyed and embraced by writing down her address. Unfortunately so, it was not legible or specific enough to send it exactly to her but as the spontaneity of the situation demonstrates there are possible means to get such a simple thing to a family that would enjoy the lasting image of the grateful day.
As we left, we heard the Muslim call to pray from the mosque down the street and later learned that when we got back to the hotel the area we ventured to is a Muslim community. It is this departure from the city than truly makes for the experience here in India.
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