The Indian Epic Concludes

I have completed my month long journey in India. I started in Bangalore, went on to paradisical Goa for a week to party, then to dingy Delhi, on to Kashmir for another week to go trekking in the snowy mountains and chill out on the serene surface of Dal Lake, and then made my way down to Agra . . . where after seeing the Taj, went on a 10 day road trip across the desert terrain of Rajasthan. I started in Agra, went on toJaipur (the Pink City), Jodhpur (Blue City), Pushkar, Jaisalmer (GoldenCity), and Mandawa.
Rajasthan is the 'Land of Kings,' and is reminiscent of 'Old India.' I was by myself for the duration of my trip in Rajasthan, and here are a few things I observed about the place: there were a greater proportion of people with animals there than the other places I had been: camels pulling carts stacked high with hay or with goods to sell at the market, donkeys the size of that Shrek character - Donkey, and also, many wandering cows, water buffalo, gangs of monkeys, and of course sleepy dogs. It is commonplace to encounter a cumbersome cow standing in the middle of a busy intersection, chewing on cud, its ears twitching in response to the hasty beeps of motorists. Also common for unconcerned dogs to nap in small packs, with people having to veer around them.
Rajasthan is known for its old, massive forts such as Amber Fort in Jaipur, Mehrangarh in Jodhpur, and Jaisalmer Fort, in Jaisalmer. I visited all of these sites and they were utterly fantastic. Atop Mehrangarh fort, I saw the most incredible view of a city, of the most dense collection of houses imaginable. Think about a scattered mess of toys on your living room floor, and then taking your hand and sweeping them all into a big pile. It looked kind of like that. Super consolidated. In Jaisalmer Fort (which houses somewhere between 4,000-5,000 people), it is almost the same thing, but the city is made of sandstone. I was awe struck by the Jain temple housed in the heart of the fort. I think the vast complexity of the Hindu religion is what inspires the INCREDIBLE amount of detail that went into the carving of this stone temple. Pictures will not do it justice, but I'll send some anyway.
After taking a camel safari, I spent a night in the Thar desert, in the middle of some sand dunes. It was so quiet. A small flock of birds flew over my head and I heard a sound vibrating from their chests as they passed . . . they sounded like light sabers cutting through the air, or swords slashing through the wind . . . at first I thought it was the sound of their wings, but when I listened closer I realized it came from within . . . how many types of birds make such a song in their passing, but we don't hear it due to their distance and the clutter of noise intercepting the transmission of their gentle sounds?
At my last stop for lunch on the side of the road, before leaving Rajasthan back to Delhi, a loaded bus drove by. Not only was it packed to capacity on the inside, but it was brimming over the top, with about twenty people riding on the roof, surrounded by a thin metal rail. They watched me watch them, and a couple of the men threw their hands up in the air and waved, their hair fluttering in the wind, toothy, loving smiles spread across their faces. Man, do these people have soul.
So now, I'm back in San Francisco. I have survived -- survived the pollution, the sun and heat (which really wasn't too bad), the numerous Indian boys I had to bat off left and right with their professions of love for my heart and their annoying offers for marriage, the all too persistent scammers who would NOT cease to step in my path and try to hook me with their charm, the sight of abject poverty and utter helplessness . . .

A month ago, a night or two before I left for this journey, I had a vision of India -- a great beating heart, tied down and bound by the strings of its history -- its conquests, its colonization, its rapid modernization and the chaos that has ensued in response . . . and this heart beat furiously, fervently, refusing to be choked. Here, an indomitable power reigns over the land, and it fiercely benevolent, like the fire of a great alter, people are moved to persevere by the light of the sun. Most have no control over the shape the future takes, but through the veins of the people here, courses insurmountable joy.
So do not assume that the 'poor' are pitiable. Many of them look upon us and realize that we lack a greatness of being, that we search for happiness in the wrong places, that it is really quite simple, and we are rather stupid to miss it . . . and many of them will look at you with such love in their eyes, you will forget that their eyes are black. It comes almost unwarranted . . . a sight to behold.

I will come back to India one day . . . but my next adventure: Someday I shall take sabbatical, travel to Brazil, take a crash course in Portugese, learn to drum and join a drum band (KICKASS!). For the sheer joy of it.

From the Steps of the Taj Onto Camel Country

From the Steps of the Taj Onto Camel Country

I went to see the Taj just to say that I saw it, because I knew all my friends and co-workers would give me a hard time if I didn't. After seeing dozens of churches in Europe, I pretty much got over the 'thrill' of architecture . . . I think man is too full of himself, and I didn't want to take part in worshipping anymore of his holy, static creations. Why, when I can just marvel humbly at the anatomy of the organic, human body, with its veins and magnificent respiratory system, the miracle of the eye that can be peered into, and which seems to reflect the state of the entire system . . . a machine more complex and perfect than man could ever devise with his own hands . . .?
But the Taj breathes. It even took my breathe and breathed it better than I did, exuding the essence of pure love. Or perhaps it was all the pollution in the dirty city of Agra that gave it its etherreal quality. I didn't care . . . it stood taller than I could have imagined, luminous, and otherworldly. There is a ton of space surrounding it, in the form of ornamental gardens and stone walkways, allowing for the monument to exhale and let its aura permeate unobstructed, undisturbed.
Though the acid rain caused by all the smog in Agra has led to a bit of discoloration of its white marble, and has eroded its carving and inlays, I'm sure its spirit remains untarnished. True, 20,000 slaves were forced to build it on the orders of of Emperor Shah Jahan, as a memorial to his second wife, but as Virat said, after I cynically lamented this fact, suggesting that evil and ignorance played a part in its construction: 'Once you see it, you'll realize why one man couldn't have built it on his own . . .'

So, you've seen pictures of it, you know what it looks like, but I can say with confidence that it is one of those places that despite the hype, never ceases to impress . . . you have to see it in real life to experience its true magnificence.
From Agra, we (as in my driver and I) travelled to Jaipur in Rajasthan. I knew we were close when we started to pass camels strutting snobbishly down the highway. They have a runway walk and most of them point their noses upward. They are most AWESOME. I look forward to the camel safari I plan on taking into the desert for a night or two under the stars.
Now that I'm here, I'm exploring the old city, and dusty palaces atop arid mountains. I saw a Hindi movie about a suicide bomber in Delhi, called Black & White and could understand barely a word. I ate my favorite dish today, Gobi, with a heap of steamed rice and Indian tea. Later, I went to a park to read a book under a tree, drawing stares from the boys playing cricket, the ones sitting idly under their own trees, and . . . everyone. Just everyone. I was approached by a couple Indian boys wanting to know where I was from, but I told them I didn't feel like talking. So they stood there for five more minutes, staring at me while I read Bridget Jones' Diary, picking at their teeth, splitting apart leaves in their fingers. Finally, one sat down next to me, and reached for the other book I had brought with me, Ayn Rand's Fountainhead (stark contrast between the two books, I know). He opened to the first page and started reading the introduction on Objectivism. I knew he was making progress because I snuck a look to see if the words on the page had changed, and indeed, they had. But I had to be careful he didn't see me looking, otherwise, he'd try to start talking to me again.
So that was my day. I'm glad you're still reading.

Kashmir is a Cold and Beautiful World

Kashmir. I have never before visited territory predominant in the Muslim faith. It doesn't seem like part of the country of India, which is alternatively known as 'Hindustan.' Very few Hindus in sight here. My knowledge of this culture and religion has been derived from such books as 'Infidel' by Ayaan Hirsi Ali, 'Now They Call me Infidel,' by (I forget her name) and columns by Thomas Friedman on making democracy work in the middle east. So basically, I am more familiar with radical Islam and the tension between the East and West as a result of colliding fundamentalisms, the lack of women's rights, etc . . . but regardless . . . this is a land whose richness of power is accessible to anyone who can perceive it, from the mountains to the serene lakes . . . and though many of the faces I see as I drive through town are mysterious and unyielding, I can tell they are as fascinated with mine as I am with theirs . . .
I am staying on a houseboat on Dal Lake, which is abundant not only in shikaras (boats that serve as taxis, transportation for food from house to market, etc.) and the souvenir peddlers that often go along with them, but wildlife as well. When I wake up in the morning to gaze out at the peaks of the Pir Pijar mountains with a cup of tea in hand, eagles swoop predatorily down onto the water to catch a fish with their CLAWS, kingfishers perch on wooden rails and proudly puff out their chests, and various colors of gregarious ducks float past, shaking their feathery butts. Each day I feel I see a new kind of bird, many of them with long thick beaks I suspect to pluck fishies outta the water.
Prayer occurs five times a day. It will start over a loudspeaker at the 'neighborhood' mosque, a kind of elderly howl, which is met by cries from men all across the lake, their voices moving across the water to meet the prayers of men on the other side. Think of the way a dog howls (I am in no way saying these people are like dogs, just bear with me ) in response to a siren, and how canines from miles around will join in, a chorus that is at once a proclamation of suffering, and the glory of enduring it, transmuting it through holy self expression . . .
The family that runs the business here has been kind enough to let us (I made a new friend here -- Caitlin, from Pennsylvania, who is my key companion in this strange land) eat and hang out with the family in their adjacent home) Every night, Caitlin, Al Rashid (the head of the household), his wife (I don't know her name, she doesn't speak english) Haroon (our tour guide, son of Al-Rashid), Akhil (Al-Rashid's nephew), Shabira (the servant) and I eat on the floor, making sure not to touch the food with our left hands (as they are used for 'washing'). Kashmiri spinach, roasted chicken or mutton, spiced veggies with potatoes are most often served, with white rice. Always, Al-Rashid insists that I eat more. Even if I had two plates piled high he reaches across the floor mat and insistently puts the shared metal bowl of food next to me. I give him a look of 'please don't make me' and all he does is point to the bowl with wide eyes and say again: 'Eat!' Not in a mean way, I might add, but out of genuine concern that my belly be stretched to the limits -- as if it were grinning in contentment. Grinding in resentment is what it feels like though.
On Tuesday, we travelled to Golmarg, a snowy valley where the shepards have stationed themselves before they move deeper into the mountains, once the weather gets warmer. Caitlin and I, along with Haroon and a local guide, Imtayuz, trekked through the snow, through a narrow beaten path, along which was an untouched layer of fluffy snow that hour feet periodically fell through, down to our shins, sometimes to my thigh. 'Slowly, slowly . . .' Haroon would repeat relentlessly. Whether we are boarding or de-boarding a shikara, or hiking through the snow, he repeats this annoying ass mantra way too often. So when he fell through the snow down to his knee, and upon rising fell again down to his other knee, we said: 'SLOWLY, SLOWLY!' and all laughed. Cheesy, I know, but it is easy to laugh over simple things here. Since most people here speak only limited amounts of English, we are all happy when we are simply understood.
After coming back from adventures such as this, Caitlin and I like to kick back and relax. Every night I have watched the sun set here, it has been the same: the sun itself is hidden behind a veil of clouds lined with pink and gold, with the rays reaching out from behind like the feathered wings of an eagle, aspiring towards a greater heaven. The sunsets remind me of the Kashmiri people themselves . . . those who stand before God five times a day, confront a being whose face I may never know, a God I only see shine through their mysterious, exultant looking eyes, post prayer.

Out of Dingy Delhi and Into an Islamic World

Being a lone foreigner in Delhi fucking sucks, excuse my Hindi. I could deal with Bangalore, but the traffic here, especially surrounding those round about vortexes -- where these auto-rickshsaws whip and rumble around and nearly collide with everyone in their path -- spin me in the wrong direction. I often sit in congested traffic to the point where I literally get a sour taste in my mouth, as smog checks are probably unheard of around here. Wicked witch of the west deisel clouds and sputtering gray plumes of exhaust swirl into my nostrils and lungs, and I find my brain shutting down from holding my breathe. Ponies trot through all of this with their heads held low, cursing to themselves, gnawing in frustration at their mouth pieces, lamenting their fate. Helpless kids beg for money for food at my window, holding little ones in their hands, whining for food with expressions of desperation. I have seen men on skateboards with one leg and lepper hands scoot themselves across the chaotic street, as people beep at them to hurry up.
So, you can imagine, when as I was being scammed by some guy who approached me on the street -- saying he just flew in from Goa and his money was stolen and he needed to call his dad but needed thirty rupees, AND MY ADDRESS, who was crying PLEASE! HELP ME PLEASE! -- my welcome relief when two young chaps close to my age intervened. They asked me what I was looking for. I told them the bookstore, and one of them led me to the nearest one. He asked me if he could buy me some tea afterward. He sensed my skepticism, but said: 'It's just tea!' I said 'Allright.' Call me naive, but I did need a friend, and a break.
These guys, John and Rafiz, turned out to be my best friends, and seemed to truly want only to help me out and show me a good time around Delhi. After tea, they took me to a bar called Regent Blues, a loud space where every song they played I knew the words to, treating me to any drink I wanted -- and the next day Rafiz (whos owns several textile shops in India and abroad -- his cell phone was ringing every five minutes) took me around the city showing me Old and New Delhi, showing me how to get to a certain travel agent so I could plan my next trip, and how to get to my next hotel. He coached me on surviving in Delhi, saying that you should basically never trust anyone, even him. Hanging out with these locals, I felt less vulnerable, though still a little cautious of course because you never know what people's intentions are.
I arrived at the travel agent, and planned a trip to Kashmir and Rajasthan, calmy accepting that I was, indeed, going to blow all my money on this trip.
I now write this from Kashmir, wearing a black headscarf and a most unflattering, long gray woolen tunic -- a style imported from the British. This is a controversial tourist destination, as Kashmir is a disputed land, India and Pakistan both claiming it as their own. The Islamic Kashmiris would like to belong to neither. They want to be independent. But, if they had to choose, it would be India because they can enjoy more rights than they would if they were Pakistani. Riots and demonstations sometimes erupt, often fueled by radicals, and they can be deadly. But at the moment, Kashmir is safe, and Caitlin and I -- the American girl who I met on the houseboat here at Dal Lake -- are always accompanied by at least one male, Herron, the son of the man who runs the business.
I will describe this land and the people more next time . . . but suffice it to say that I have trekked through a snow shrouded valley where sheperds reside now in the winter, and where I held a lamb in my arms among a flock of Kashmiri children, have visited the barren Mughal gardens where leafless trees stand stoically against the cold, and have smoked from a creaky wooden hookah in the company of two yellow toothed old men, where I proceeded to experience the most pleasurable buzz.