Back on the Hilltop!

I'm happy to be back, and I'm trying to hold on to my feelings of appreciation for things here:
     that the water is safe to drink right from the tap
     that the power doesn't go off for several hours a day
     that the Health Center is here, and that I'm rarely in need of it
     that I can eat salad, and fruit without peeling
     that I don't pass hundreds of homeless kids and adults camping on sidewalks every day
     that teachers show up and do their job
     that I don't have to bribe anyone, any time
     that everyone has access to toilets
Of course India has a lot to be proud of, and arguably a great future. But it's undeniable that I live a privileged life, a life that is less stressful than that of the vast majority of Indians . . .

a few tentative conclusions

India: the short version, or, some tentative conclusions

What will I remember about India?

•      The unresolved contrasts between thatched mud huts or construction-debris shacks without water or electricity, and the gleaming, gated, high-rise apartments right behind them; between village life and city life; between the educated elite (or middle-class) and those deprived of the basic right to an education, to health care, to a job, to sufficient nutrition.

•      The persistence of native dress, even in cities, especially for women. Why not? The sari, kurta, and salwar kameez are flattering, comfortable, and cheap (of course a sari can be a costly garment, but the advent of the nylon sari, ghastly as the designs often are, meant that an inexpensive, easy-care sari could be within the reach of the masses; it also made the fortune of the Ambani family).  India is deeply conservative in many ways, and the survival of these modes of expressing national identity are consonant with that conservatism. Even women who might reject that explanation, however, wear the kurta with jeans, because it's comfortable and looks good. Manual laborers are likely to be wearing a short dhoti, but it's not that rare to see men wearing a lungi [the long skirt-like wrap], or a long kurta with pyjama pants, or even jodhpur-type leggings [suddenly, seeing the desert city of Jodhpur, I understood the etymology of "jodhpur": I wish I could tell Tony], but almost always in pure white, unlike the plethora of patterns for women's textiles.

•      The persistence of caste, religion, and color-prejudice, even among the most educated class. Indeed, rather than diminishing, the Hindutva movement has emphasized and valorized these distinctions, and reservations [affirmative action or aarakshan] for the Scheduled Castes and tribals (adivasi) has led to a rebound of resentment.

•      The paradoxical contrast between the friendliness, generosity, and kindness of the ordinary India, to a perfect stranger, and the apparent absence of civic responsibility. The latter is manifest in behavior that includes the chaotic, competitive, and ego-centric driving-style, the incredible litter everywhere, the lack of amenities like integral sidewalks, and the low voter turn-out. Even the willingness to help a stranger might display civic disregard, as with the young men who were perfectly happy to lend their photo and passport-copy so that I could purchase a SIM card under their name, circumventing the law that tracks SIM-card purchase. An Indian explained this willingness to break laws as a combination of "no consequences," and "everyone does it."

•      In reaction to the negatives (and no one is more critical of corruption, mis-government, etc. than Indians) the optimism that many young Indians express, reflected also in the CNN series, "India Positive," a daily dose of some good news, usually about individuals trying to make a difference somewhere.

•      For every one Indian author [writing in English] and known outside the sub-continent, there must be a hundred unknown [not to mention those writing in native languages].

•      Indians can be masters of English, but English as spoken by the ordinary Indian (as opposed to those educated in English-medium schools) can be quite a challenge for an American ear to decipher. The famous witticism about England and the US being two nations divided by a common language applies even more to India and the US. It's largely just speed and accent that strain communications both ways. On the other hand, Indian languages often adopt loan-words from English, so that in the middle of a torrent of Hindi a familiar English word [sometimes, the proper name of a commodity] will float up.  And of course English has borrowed its own share, like jodhpur, and "dekko"--doubtless more of these loan-words are in British than in American usage. Since returning, I've learned (from the excellent Imagining India, by Infosys founder Nandan Nilekani) that veranda, avatar, cheroot and typhoon are also gifts from India's tongues.

•      The importance of history: India has a lot of it, and although much physical evidence has been destroyed deliberately or by neglect, what survives is still abundant and almost all is contentious, a record of conflict between Hindu and Muslim, Indian and British, and a potential source of future conflict. The fantastically beautiful and technically accomplished stone temple-carvings, for instance, are idols that would presumably meet the fate of the Bamiyan Buddhas in any Islamic-fundamentalist future. No Hindus visit the lovely Mughal tombs of Sringanapatnam, and a Hindutva regime might turn a blind eye to their destruction, as with the mosque in Ayodhya.

getting around India

Transportation experiences:

SUV-type A/C taxi [2.5 hours]
ancient, public inter-state bus [4 hours]
auto-rickshaw
private car with driver
car-hire non-A/C with driver [eight hours]
2nd-class non-A/C sleeper train [eight hours]
private non-A/C long-haul bus [nine hours]
new, efficient, city bus
new A/C public airport shuttle bus
inter-city plane [Jet Airways]
A/C Delhi taxi
non-A/C Delhi taxi
new, A/C, city sightseeing/shuttle public bus
cycle-rickshaw [ethical dilemma: see below*]
motorbike [OK, I was just offered a ride for one block and I didn't accept: no helmet]
1st-class A/C class sleeper train [18+ hours]
2nd-class A/C sleeper train [there are multiple classes on Indian trains!] 
new (2010) Delhi metro [to the airport]
and, mostly, . . . shank's mare!

*Rickshaw-wallahs are uniformly skinny, stringy, sinewy men, who look undernourished and exhausted (and are often seen collapsed, sleeping, in their vehicles at the side of the road). They have to work in the pollution and danger of city traffic. It seems wrong for another human being to physically (laboriously) transport me, when I can walk. But if I don't use the cycle-rickshaw, the rickshaw-wallah will not eat. Not using the service might make it go away in the long run, but in the short run, it will deprive the men and their families of a livelihood.  Probably economists have something to say about this dilemma, and I look forward to discussing it with my development-economist son.

Diwali!

     Imagine Christmas gift-giving, in early-summer weather, with the soundtrack of July Fourth, the new clothes of Easter, the food-and-family of Thanksgiving: that's Diwali. It's a time for lights, flowers, shopping, some religious ceremonies, and days of firecrackers and fireworks (and this being India, the pyrotechnics are exuberant and entirely unregulated). Last night the incessant explosions reached a crescendo around midnight, but continued with only slight abatement right through the rest of the night and into the morning. (The windows are open, because it's not hot enough for AC now.) Some blasts were extremely close, and at times I wondered how the people of Sarajevo, for instance, could have borne their bombardment. I had leisure to wonder, because sleeping was out of the question.
     However, I was so fortunate to be invited to share the day in a home. After last-minute shopping, my host, Rouma, and I returned to prepare for the late-afternoon arrival of the Brahmin pandit, or priest, who would visit the house to do the puja. This service is meant to ask Lakshmi and Ganesh, especially, to bring prosperity and peace to the home: the point of all the beautiful lights and flowers adorning houses and shops is to entice the goddess of wealth to visit. I'd offered to help, but was given the most pleasant tasks: pulling petals off roses, to heap in a marble lotus-shaped bowl, and bathing and garlanding the small bronze elephant-headed Ganesh figure.
     The preparations included garlanding the various gods; lighting small candles at the house-door; spreading a cloth over the carpet, and arranging on it bowls or thalis (steel trays) of flowers, fruit, sweets, water in a steel cup, a clay oil lamp, and cushions for sitting. The pandit arrived, dressed in a pure white kurta-pyjama (having visited at least eight or ten houses already, for the same ceremony, with many more to come that day), and we all sat cross-legged as he lit incense, chanted continually in Sanskrit (sounding quite like Gregorian chant) while ringing a small brass bell; put a red-paste mark and rice-grains on our foreheads, instructed us to shower the small images of the gods with marigold petals, and to offer the oil-lamp smoke, to garland each other, to offer the fruit, to sprinkle the images with water, etc. He tied a red thread around our wrists, dropped a silver coin into a small bowl of milk, and after making the offerings (prasad), gave us each a handful to eat: puffed rice, a wafer-shaped sugar lump, fruit, a lentil sweet, sweetened rice cooked with saffron. Finally, he blew several chest-resonating notes on a conch: if the gods had dozed off during the service, they'd be alert to our presence now!
     In the evening we lit dozens of little clay oil-lamps and arranged them on the roof-terrace, the balconies, and the sitting-room. A couple of young women from Spain, and a Frenchwoman my age, arrived for dinner, although we had to retreat from the terrace to the only slightly quieter sitting-room, as the explosions increased. The Indian food was superb, the conversation thoroughly interesting, and I did valiantly attempt to sleep at midnight, when the guests departed. I'll try to nap today before heading for the airport: maybe the sleepless night will help me re-adjust to the 9.5-hour time change . . . .

My kind of religion: book-worship

          Okay, it's not worship: Sri Guru Granth Sahib, the Sikhs' holy book, is venerated only. [Sikhism, like Buddhism, is a non-theistic philosophy; a key tenet is that service to humanity is service to god.]  But the Golden Temple at Amritsar is quite a testament to the reverence of the faithful.
          After a brief visit the afternoon I arrived [google Golden Temple for pictures], I went back next morning at 4 AM, when the Granth is transferred from its marble and gold-domed overnight home at one end of the huge white temple-complex, to the Golden Temple itself, which sits in the middle of a vast tank or pool (where golden koi swim).  It was hours before sunrise: the temple-complex was brilliantly lit and thronged with barefoot pilgrims wrapped in cloaks against the Punjabi chill. [There were more people at 4 AM than there had been in the daytime.] Some were still sleeping under the colonnades; some bathed in the holy pool, despite the temperature and breeze. Women's heads were covered; most men wore the towering Sikh turban, and quite a few men (and women too) had silver kirpans (curved daggers) slung on a bandolier and resting at handy hip-level. A few tall, fierce-looking men in saffron turbans and long blue coats carried spears with large leaf-shaped blades that did not look merely decorative.
          The causeway to the Golden Temple itself was already packed solid, so I went up some stairs and found the sleeping-place of the holy book (behind glass panels). Descending on the other side, I positioned myself where I could see the palanquin being readied for the procession. It was being garlanded, though it needed no ornamentation, being entirely covered in gold leaf intricately worked. A brocade bed and two pillows were laid in the carrier; a saffron processional flag appeared; a small gold turret was added to the palanquin's canopy, and then garlanded (the whole thing now being of gold completely overlaid with golden flowers); a fine cloth was spread over the marble floor at the place where the palanquin would receive the book.
          Throughout these preparations, the faithful kept praying aloud, in musical call-and-response fashion, while other  recitation-chanting from the gurus [translated into English on an enormous flat-screen display, in the daytime] came over the loudspeakers, so that at times there seemed to be a competition. Then a loud shofar-like note was heard, from an S-shaped brass instrument that towered over its player (how interested Tony would have been!), and the enormously heavy palanquin was carried by a dozen men to the foot of the stairs. These stairs--and all surfaces near the book--were swept continuously by stooping devotees wielding lengths of cloth.  
          The horn sounded again: above, two tall silver maces appeared, then a man in white who held a huge silken pillow on his head, on which the book rested. Behind him, someone swished it ceaselessly with a silver-handled whisk made, I believe, of plumy white lambs-wool. At the appearance of the Granth the fervor of the crowd was unbounded: some cried out in prayer, others fell to their knees and bent their faces to the ground. As the book neared it was inundated with showers of rose-petals flung by pilgrims, before being placed in the palanquin and carried past the crowd on the causeway.
          The next day I waited for an hour to cross that causeway and see the inside of the Golden Temple itself. It's like being inside a Faberge egg: every surface is covered in brilliantly colored and patterned gilt and paint, mirrors set in the ceiling, walls of elaborate floral porcelain or marble inlay. A two-storey crystal chandelier hangs over the book, which rests on brocade cushions strewn with rose-petals, protected by a many-tasseled silken canopy. A priest chantingly recites from the holy Granth; musicians play (harmoniums and drums), and the faithful throw coins and bills on its cloth dais.  Although the Sikhs have had a bloody history (depicted in gory museum paintings at the complex), it resulted largely from persecution: they themselves are inclusive and tolerant.  And I have to warm to those who hold so dear a book of wisdom.

monuments and memories

Here's some advice to anyone thinking of a visit to the Taj Mahal: (1) don't stay in awful Agra, epicenter of tourist-exploitation; (2) don't bother with the "Taj by Moonlight," however romantic and exclusive (only on non-Friday, non-Ramadan, full-moon nights, by advance ticketing) it sounds: whether it was mist, pollution, or the placement of the moon, the building's silhouette was barely discernible in the distance; (3) do see the Taj at dawn.
     The air was fresh and cool, there were few (relatively speaking) tourists, and I even managed to be ALONE in one chamber of the tomb for five whole minutes. [It's difficult to be alone in India at any time, much less at the Taj.] I was prepared to find this icon over-hyped, but was actually moved by its perfection. As the sun rose, the building's color changed, through all shades of pearl. The jalis, stone screens, made lacework patterns on the floors. Thanks to an expert guide I heard the amazingly prolonged echo under the double dome.
     Another sound effect was potentially more sinister: the whispering gallery in the Agra Fort (a walled Mughal palace complex even larger than the Lal Qila in Delhi), evoking the machinations of court life. Machinations like the imprisonment of Shah Jahan by his un-filial son Aurangzeb. The usurping emperor did provide dad with a beautiful marble pavilion from which he could gaze downriver at the monument he had built to Mumtaz, although his eyesight had almost completely gone. Poignant, and just another strike against Aurangzeb, my least-favorite Mughal.
    The human scale of the "Baby Taj," built by Nur Jahan for her parents' interment, was very pleasing: similar in plan to all Mughal tombs, but small and delicate, with lacy jalis, it has colorful floral motifs as well as the endless geometric patterns. [Forgive me, dear math colleagues, but the relentless geometry and horror vacui did get a bit wearing.]
     Fatehpur Sikri is another World Heritage site notched on my counting-stick.  More compact and better preserved than Hampi, and in a completely different [non-Hindu] style (google for photos), it again displays the astonishing Mughal taste for splendor and good living. Unfortunately the water ran out, and the court had to abandon it after only 15 years' use.
     Rajasthan memories: the desert from the train window turning pink at sunrise; antelope springing away in the scrub; men in colorful, loose (non-Sikh) turbans; women in swinging skirts, bodices, arms weighted with silver bracelets to the shoulder, heads and faces veiled with translucent scarves in brilliant colors, spangle-edged.
     Jaisalmer, my destination, is a 12 c. fortress-city (of 99 bastions: it resembles Carcassonne) filled with butterscotch sandstone haveli [mansions], in fanciful forms (colonnades, turrets, cupolas, balconies, bays, etc.), all fretted with filigree stonework. Each looks like the sand-castle it is. The wealthy Jain merchants who built this secure trading depot competed in decorative extravagance. Unfortunately, the fort has not conserved its water or its architecture adequately, and is in danger of becoming a sandpile again. I stayed outside the town (the only ethical option, Lonely Planet says), in a small inn run by an ex-pat New Zealand woman and her Indian Muslim husband (much younger, with another, "village" wife much younger than he--younger, in fact, than the Kiwi's daughter back in Australia). If I were a novelist, I'd return for a month of note-taking on her story.
     On my habitual walks, this time in late afternoon, I struck out to the edges of the town, where the scrub began, along a street of thatched mud-cement houses seeming to emerge from a scarp. Although I strode with the brisk step necessary to discourage the constant curiosity of every inhabitant, I was so persistently and charmingly invited to take tea in one home that I feared a repeated refusal would damage US-Muslim relations. So I climbed the sandy slope, removed my sandals, and sat cross-legged (an empty cement bag having been spread for the guest) in the tiny packed-dirt courtyard .  My host (a hotel worker who spoke some English), his mother, his aunt, her two young daughters, his bare-bottomed toddler son, and eventually his father, a lean, craggy-faced, turban-and-lungi-clad exemplar of the Rajasthani tribesman, were all introduced. Smiles and gestures replaced chat. My host was probably in his twenties, a fine-featured, small but handsome man, with brilliant teeth and sparkling eyes. His wife and another child were in their village: they would move when his house (which was being constructed out of sand and cement next door, about a foot high at this point) was finished. Every drop of water to mix the cement (and make the tea--and, perhaps, wash the steel tumbler?) had to be carried by hand. I drank the sweet milky chai, with no ill effects. Nothing was requested. (I gave a small amount of money, "a gift for the children.") This will be one of my best memories of the desert.

I've come from the desert on a horse with no name

although it was actually an iron horse, the Jaisalmer-Delhi Express. "Express" it may have been called, but it took 18 hours, not counting the time to get to the train, and from the train through mid-day traffic, to the guesthouse--via auto-rickshaw (which in Delhi, I've learned, run on clean, compressed natural gas--unlike the belching buggies of Bangalore).
          I'm also back, after nine days, to the land of technology. [I've been too spoiled by access to a couple of clean computers to go back to the Internet cafes, where the keyboards look like bacterial support-systems.] The hotel in Agra had a tv (except for the hours when the power was off) with only one English channel (happily, BBC World News). The guesthouse in Jaisalmer, run by a 68-year-old New Zealand expat librarian married to an Indian Muslim (who has a village wife also: what a story there) had neither tv nor internet. In addition, of course, I can't speak or read Hindi or Marwari or Rajasthani: I had the sudden understanding of what it feels like to be illiterate, looking at signs or directions in a script that might as well have been Arabic or Chinese, for all the meaning it conveyed to me. This sort of isolation, though, can be restful and conducive to contemplation. Not that I've reached satori, alas: it was too hot for enlightenment . . .

Nizamuddin East

     I was so lucky to find a homestay in this quiet green enclave, protected, like the Bangalore Club was, from the chaos and cacophony outside. This neighborhood has a South-of France feel: the tiny balcony outside my room looks out on flat rooftops and blocky white buildings, but it has a flowering vine growing over it, trees in pots, and a miniature marble-topped table.  The room is high-ceilinged, with marble floor and dark wood trim, lovely textiles (the owner is a designer) and artwork. An efficient ceiling-fan is enough to cool the room for sleeping. There is a rooftop garden just a floor above, full of potted plants and even a square of grass.
     The neighborhood is graced by dozens of small  parks protected from development (if not from the dog-owners airing their pets just beneath the "NO DOGS" sign), from pocket-sized to basketball-court-sized, all beautifully planted and shaded by old trees. The houses' pierced stonework, arched window-recesses, decorative grilles, oriels, and spiral stairs redeem the Corbusier-like angles and cubes.
     There's almost no traffic, but cars are parked neatly, everywhere. They're not fancy---Hondas prevail---but many are being buffed assiduously by the driver (not the owner, but a servant). Horn-use is forbidden, and it's possible to cross a street leisurely. The cries of peddlers, on bicycles or cycle-rickshaws, echo atmospherically from the streets below, and the day is punctuated by the Sikh prayers sung (and amplified) at a nearby gurdwara. I'll be sorry to leave for bustling Agra tomorrow (before dawn), but happily will return in ten days. Since that time will include two overnight train journeys, I will need the R&R!

Lal Qila, Delhi

     Although Nizam-ud-din seems to have preserved a pocket of decrepitude and filth around his precincts (godliness and cleanliness having become uncoupled), the rest of Delhi is as leafy as Bangalore and with much less litter and better sidewalks. It is smellier (my nose is working just fine; I try not to gasp at the ammoniac reek), and the destitute are either more numerous or more visible, but the auto-rickshaw wallahs are less insistent than elsewhere. There are monkeys, but no cows.
     The highlight for me so far was Qila Lal, the Red Fort, built by Shah Jahan when he intended to move his capital from Agra (his son interfered and imprisoned him in Agra Fort where he died). It was a fortification that protected an elaborate palace complex. The British took a terrible revenge here for the 1847 "Uprising," razing many of the exquisite court buildings (as well as slaughtering thousands of Indians, including all ten of the last emperor's sons).  An idea of what was lost can be gleaned from what remains: the throne room's elaborate canopied stone platform (the Peacock Throne itself having been looted by the Afghans), and especially the open-air reception hall. Nine arches long (each arch with eight inward-facing points), just between King Hall and the Main Common Room in size, it's a fantasy in white marble, columns inlaid with pietra dura flowers and low-relief cartouches with gold fill. The silver-gilt ceiling tiles are mostly damaged, but the elegance and lightness remain: the Mughals were supreme at conspicuous consumption. A smaller, more delicate set of rooms to its south was roped off---but the rope was knee-high and there were no guards, so crowds of Indians (with a blithe disregard for crossing official lines evident elsewhere) just stepped over and in. Another half-dozen beautiful buildings (as well as functional administrative one built by the British) stand within the extensive red sandstone crenellated walls.
     Halfway around the site I sat in the shade at the edge of a dry water-course (broad channels once carried cool water to all parts of the complex and supplied its fountains). As I ate a handful of dates and read my guidebook, I noticed some moving fabric, out of the corner of my eye. Looking up, I understood: across the channel an entire extended family, in holiday apparel, stood, egging on the grandmother as she inched closer to me, while the family's one son, age eight or so, tried to get us together in his viewfinder. I put down my book, removed my sunglasses, leaned closer to the matriarch, and smiled.  It's not the first time: a half-dozen Indian family albums now have an inexplicable foreigner appearing randomly in them. The boy practiced his English and showed the photo to me and to his grandmother, whose only English word seemed to be "photo," but who clasped my hand with her henna- or mehndi-covered one, as she left.
     Waiting to catch the return bus I watched the traffic--the densest I've seen yet, with a Diwali carnival set-up adding to the confusion--and saw a procession of chanting men carrying overhead a litter with what appeared to be a sheet-wrapped corpse on it. I hoped somehow it was an effigy needed for a ritual . . . .   

Walk 3.0: Through Medieval India

     Delhi wasn't Humayun's capital city: when his relict built his tomb there in the mid-16c she chose the site because it was adjacent to the much-visited shrine of a late-13/early-14c Sufi saint. Nizam-ud-din's tomb would almost fit into one of the alcoves at the base of the emperor's tomb. Rebuilt several times, and gradually surrounded by various other small shrines and a mosque, Nizam-ud-din's entire complex could sit in Madeira Hall with room to spare.
     Around the sacred site in the medieval period a mini-city naturally grew, and to reach the shrine hidden in the center (the way Chartres, or Salisbury used to be buried by the town) one must negotiate a maze of alleys, averaging four feet wide and thronged with folk. Ramshackle stalls line the warren, selling starched white prayer-caps, flowers to offer the saint, beads and bangles, and a lot more.  Food is being cooked, and on the mounds of dough or raw meat flies (more numerous even than the humans) stroll unhindered. Below the vats and grills the pavement is indescribably dirty: on my way out (luckily after resuming shoes) I narrowly missed stepping on a dead rat lying in the middle of the path. Chickens (in cages) and tethered goats await their fate. Sitting in the filth are beggars, many limbless or deformed; the more agile beggar-children stick persistently to the visitor.  Motorcycles and the occasional car somehow force their way through the crowds.
     Even in China I haven't been in such a smothering press of people, a ceaseless flow through the chute-like gully, past even tinier, more fetid, alleys to the sides: haggling, eating, touting on the fringes, and pushing on to the holy center.  The faces are every shade of brown. Although I've drawn a scarf over my hair and half over my face, I feel irredeemably white and conspicuous. The human stream runs into a covered bazaar, claustrophobic, though actually cleaner and incense-scented. But then one must remove one's shoes. I try not to flinch each time my feel feel something beside the pavement, beneath them.
     Milling about, squatting, cradling babies, and praying, in front of the various shrines (Nizam-ud-din's the whitest and most-decorated) are Muslims in an infinite variety of dress. Men wear crocheted, lacey caps, velvety fezzes, casually wrapped turbans (unlike the Sikhs'), or kippah-like colorful skullcaps.  The women's scarves are white and deckle-edged (Indonesian?), thin, bright, gauzy chiffon, tightly-tucked black (but from one such sober veil a black braid descending the back is tied with a bright ornamental tassle), or face-covering (but these, too, might be embroidered in gold). The women's dress seems a display of regional costume from the whole sub-continent. Despite the piety of the adherents, there's no attempt at male-female segregation, and in these cramped quarters, no way to avoid brushing against those of the opposite sex.  In one corner men are performing ritual ablutions, and I wonder whether the hawking and spitting into a trough is an improvement over the usual street-hygiene.
     Before entering one shrine the pilgrims stroke its low, gilded and painted arch (already worn in accessible places) with fingertips, then touch fingers to mouth and eyes--the way medieval Christians might have venerated a relic or blessed themselves with holy water.  In fact, except for the amplified muezzin reciting prayers, there's nothing to identify this scene as the 21st, and not the 15th, century.

Humayun's Tomb at daybreak

   I asked for a later breakfast from the sweet homestay owner (whose marvelous cook has made a couple of GF meals for me; I still can't get used to the presence of servants everywhere) and headed off about 6:20---just after it became fully light---to the local sight, and apparently the highlight of Delhi's many Mughal monuments, Humayun's Tomb. [Humayun was the second Mughal emperor; he had a checkered career, losing the empire to an Afghan, spending 15 years in exile in Persia--his mother's home--then regaining the throne, only to die six months later, falling down the marble steps in his library.]  His senior wife, away on the Haj when he died, made the tomb for him (a bit of guilt there, perhaps?).
    The mornings are cool, and although I inadvertently walked a roundabout route, that gave me a chance to see more of the lovely, Mediterranean-type homes in this gated neighborhood (Nizamuddin East, the exact opposite of Nizamuddin West, a warren of medieval alleys around the shrine of the Sufi saint Nizam-ud-din), and it brought me to the tomb in its extensive grounds just as the ticket-seller arrived. [Tickets are 20 cents for Indians, $5 for everyone else, which I find entirely fair.] I was the only tourist for the entire two hours I spent there!
     Since I can't upload photos, you'll have to google "Humayun's Tomb" (a World Heritage site, so there'll be lots of images). The 2003 main-building restoration is being supplemented by ongoing work: in the ground-level platform the arched recesses, which may look like a colonnade but are each the individual entry to a small chamber, giving onto another interior chamber, are being whitewashed, with the lattice-groins picked out in thin double lines of ochre. The tiny pillared canopies on the very top used to be covered in blue tiles: that must have been lovely. The pierced-stone windows, looking so fragile, are actually six inches deep: they let in air and keep out sun, but they also have a religious reference: when Mohammed was hiding from his enemies, a spider wove a web across the cave entrance, so the cave was not searched, and these patterned stone webs recall that event. (World history changed by an arachnid.)  I doubt that the photos will show the bright-green parrots that add a grace note to the red sandstone and white ornamentation!  And nor can they provide the sound of chanting coming from a mosque nearby: the perfect sound track. 

Indian TV
     Granted, since I don't have a tv at home, my basis for comparison is nil.  Nevertheless, when I've caught some screen time in various hotel rooms, I've been fascinated.
     There are many ads for fast cars. Given the state of the roads, this is puzzling: where could real speed be possible, without destroying the suspension (if not a cow or pedestrian)?
     Ads for skin-whitening products attest to the preference for fairness that's still a feature of life (friends tell me to look at the matrimonial ads, where a similar prejudice is displayed). I just viewed an ad for a deodorant that promises also to whiten underarms . . . really. And a prejudice against body hair--under arms, or chest hair on men--has also been imported from the West.  
     Ads for slimming products (usually a tea): diabetes is a serious problem in India. I've seen many very skinny people here, but also many overweight ones (if not up to the worst of American excess in that department).
     Other Western imports: movie channels, Bloomberg, Discovery, BBC Entertainment, Nat Geo, TLC. The hybrid CNN/INS channel just scooped up a mass of awards, and they were deserved, from what I can see by comparison with the other news channels (some in Kannada, Telegu, Hindi, or another language).  Several all-sports channels, offering a lot of cricket, but occasionally boxing or even baseball.
     Home-produced channels appear to be mainly either soap operas or spiritual guidance (again, I'm judging by body language and costume, since I can't understand a word). The gurus are often notably "saffron" (the color of Hindu nationalism)--in orange robes (or, at least, below the waist: above, their hairy chests may be on display), with orange-smeared foreheads, caste marks, scarves--or sometimes all in white. In the soap operas, women are bedecked with jewels and wearing the glitziest saris imaginable, edged with sparkling crystals, or covered in sequinned patterns. Modesty prevails, however: little skin is on view.
     Despite the wealth of native IT engineering talent, synchronizing voice and image is a perennial problem.

   

Walking, village mode

     Hampi is a World Heritage site, eight or nine grueling hours by train [2nd class non-AC sleeper] or by "luxury coach: super-deluxe executive class" bus [so many adjectives, so little in them], but after a night's recovery-sleep it is completely worth it. For over 200 years the site of a thriving Hindu empire, it was razed by a league of sultans in 1565. Pillage and time have much reduced its splendor, but it's still an awe-inspiring ruin--perhaps the topic for another post.
     This afternoon, though, I set out through the village at the very southern fringe of the vast historic site, where one paved temple-complex spreads out over the area of four football fields or more. It's on a side-road of the village of Kamalapuram, which seems a relatively prosperous place, with a couple of public water-pumps, and electricity laid on. [Of course the sight of overhead wires isn't exactly congruent with the majestic temple ruins, but a country where people still starve can't really bury its wires.]  Some of the concrete-block houses are large, even multi-story, and the thatch-covered mud buildings are freshly whitewashed. A lovely sky blue is the favored color for doors and trim (and bullock-carts), while on the bare swept earth before some doorways intricate geometric patterns have been chalked. The village shops--one-room stalls open onto the street--are heaped with coconuts, papayas, bananas, water in plastic bottles, and jars of Indian fried sweets.
     The usual animals are much in evidence: dogs (either tan or black, all with their tails curling forward over their backs) and puppies, roosters (one perched on a parked motorbike seat) and young chickens, black pigs and piglets. Cats, presumably, after dark (there are a couple of tame ones at the government hotel where I'm staying). A big herd of home-going goats occupied the street for a bit; other goats curl up in their yards like family pets. Of course there's cattle everywhere. Horns come in varied shapes: spread flat like water-buffalo, upright and lyre-like, forward-pointing, Ferdinand-style, etc. Some are painted red or blue, others are tipped with brass caps hung with tiny tinkling bells. There are necklaces of bells, and bright yarn bobbles on foreheads. No sheep---and certainly no elephants.
     The usual human inhabitants, too: naked babies, old men and women sitting on doorsteps or the ground (but just resting after a full day's work: no retirement here), a man bathing in the wide, fast-running canal. But above all, children---hordes of them (school is over for the day), who all (above the age of three or so) call out, "Hi, English," and run up smiling. They ask for "school pen?" (next time I'll bring a bag of pens) then "two rupees?" (four cents), but in a ritual sort of way, not expecting any pens or rupees to appear. Then conversational gambits: "Where from?" and "Your name?" They're happy to give their names in return, and laugh as I try to repeat them properly. The expert speakers venture further: "How old are you?" and "Your husband name?" When I reply that he died, their expressions become sad and they take my hand and say, "Sorry, sorry."
     Given all the pigs, and the sacred nature of Hampi, I'm surprised to see many Muslim girls (identifiable because their uniform includes a head-covering, even at age eight or so); other girls seem, from their bodice-and-flounced-skirt costume, to be adivasi [tribals]. The boys, of course, are unclassifiably dressed in shirts and shorts, and also like small boys everywhere, are more forward, and rowdy, and try to show me how they can "box." It seems that most of this village's children are in schools, which would make it quite unusual, I believe.
     People commonly walk with their backs to the traffic (even at night, on unlighted streets), giving drivers additional incentive to use their horns. Trucks (some brightly painted with floral designs) all have "Sound Horn" encouragingly printed on their rear bumpers. The horns seem especially shrill and loud--unless my hearing has grown more sensitive, as my sense of smell has diminished.  For I don't find the streets odorous--even though there are plenty of cowpats (and the fields around are the public toilet). Despite all the loose dogs there are no dog piles, and I don't really want to connect that fact with the roaming pigs.
   Compared to the city walk, there's less noise, less litter, more dust (though the street is paved) and more charm.  And there's a LOT more interaction. By the time I walk to the end of the street, both to the temple, and returning, I've acquired a tail of kids, some on bikes, all wanting to chat. I came here to see the sights, and have unwittingly become one myself.

Extreme sport in Bangalore

Two things make walking in the city a highly risky activity:
1. sidewalks (or the lack thereof). I've not yet seen a poured-concrete sidewalk here.  Sidewalks are composed of small pavers, inevitably bumpy, missing in places, ragged at the edges; or they're unevenly-laid oblong granite slabs, gaps and height-differences sometimes plastered over, with silver-dolar-size holes for rainwater drainage (I suppose that no one wears high heels) to the channel beneath.  Suddenly one comes on a slab broken or missing, with a two-foot drop to the muddy pit below: step carefully over the wide gap to the other side! Sidewalks are always littered, there being no dustbins, but sometimes serve as actual garbage dumps, mounded with rubbish. Frequently they're piled with sand, gravel, builders' blocks and other construction materials (even if there's no nearby construction); or, a heap of stones might just seemingly have fallen from the skies onto the walk. Automobiles park on sidewalks, and vendors set up shop on them. If a driveway is cut across the sidewalk, the hapless pedestrian steps off an 18" cliff. If a tree grows close to the road, the sidewalk doesn't skirt it: It simply stops, picking up on the other side. Indeed, since the roadbed is invariably smoother, and the sidewalk obstructed, walkers are often found in the street, bringing us to challenge #2.
2. Vehicles. Traffic is insane. It careers madly, lane-less and unruly, until stopped by a light (with a few. of course, running the light). There are zebra-crossings but they mean nothing: vehicles rule the road, and sounding the horn apparently gives a driver the right-of-way---even if he's turning against the traffic, which isn't uncommon. A car emerging from a side-street doesn't stop just because a pedestrian is already crossing, nor does it wait for a break in traffic. Leaning on the horn, it forges ahead, forcing the walker and oncoming drivers to stop (or at least slow). Cacaphony [for whatever reason, horns are particularly abrasive here] is the spirit-wearying mode.
   Of course traffic is on the left, as in England---but here, looking left isn't enough, as bicyclists often ride against the flow, and scooters or even cars might also go the wrong way. Indeed, motorcycles and bicycles will use the sidewalk, heedless of pedestrians, if it's quicker. In lieu of signals, there are many traffic circles. Here pedestrians are truly on their own: they can be observed huddling in small clumps, clinging to a divider, in the midst of exhaust-clouds and chaos, hoping for a break. If there are six inches between passing vehicle and human, no one flinches---though, not being yet inured, I have shut my eyes and even emitted a faint cry when it looked like a disaster was imminent. However, I've yet to witness an accident. [I did, eventually, see a fender-bender.] I like the touchingly earnest signs warning not to drink and drive, or advising "Drive with Care Make Accident Rare," or threatening a sizable fine for "lane indiscipline": could that fine be collected from every violator, the city's revenue problems would be over.
     Result: I'm working on a walking/touring style that combines looking down at the hazards ahead one minute, then looking up at the sights, the next. I imagine that I resemble a demented pigeon, but I've survived.

sightseeing

   Yesterday was the big sightseeing day: more than six hours walking around the city (and for the entire day I noticed only six non-Indians, five of them in one group). You can see so much on foot! Of course, it helps to have a good map (contra Lonely Planet, the Tourism Office map is not adequate. For one thing, it has the airport in the wrong place, since it dates from 2004, before the new airport was built!).  Street names missing on map, and few street signs, but luckily many friendly policemen and others to ask for directions. (Everyone looked askance when I said that I was walking, though: see the following post for a possible explanation.) Of course I did go out of my way in places, but since the goal was to see the city, not keep to a timetable, that was all to the good.
    I set off through the surprisingly quiet neighborhood along one side of the Club (the main gate fronts on a turbulent thoroughfare), Lavelle Road, then an equally surprising stretch of clean, wide, smooth sidewalks and upscale enterprises (Vital Mallya Road---not to be confused with the Vital Mallya Road that intersects it at a 45-degree angle to it: what does the postal service do?), along Cubbon Park--then back into the honking, racing maelstrom, even on a Saturday. I plunged across a traffic circle and into a side-road: no buses, less noise, but no sidewalks either, and quite a few cows (though there are cows on the major roads occasionally, in the heinous traffic).
   Just when I thought I was lost, the white minarets of Jamia Masjid floated above the dingy skyline, and I carried on past a lengthy row of machine-parts shops. The mosque is massive, but entirely hemmed in: there's even an elevated roadway swooping along its south side. (I wonder how the city's Muslims felt about that construction project.)  Although not quite as white as it seemed from a distance, it's pristine in its surroundings, and delicately carved all over, in cake-icing style. The twin domes, white balloons, are hidden in the centre, visible only when one's standing in the shadow of the express skyway.
    Then on to the summer palace of Tipu Sultan, son of Hyder Ali: his main palace was outside Mysore, the seat of his kingdom, and at the time I imagine that Bangalore was a pleasant village. The palace still has a little oasis of green calm about it, and it doesn't overawe, being a moderate-size symmetrical wooden building, open on two sides, with a forest of tall pillars making a cool audience-chamber on each side. Once every interior wall and ceiling was covered with fine, colorful, floral and geometric patterns, like a Persian carpet, only faintly visible now. The Venkataraman Temple is next door, white outside, and full of elaborate carvings within. The Sultan was apparently quite tolerant, and the temple's bronze column is supposed to have saved his life by deflecting a British bullet, so I suppose that the proximity of the infidel temple wasn't too offensive. There were services going on when I arrived, with gongs, chants, and occasionally what sounded like a shofar. On the way to the Sultan's palace I'd wandered into a market and a couple of minor temples, with many cows lounging about, and even more buses.
     It was a bit of a slog to the Bull Temple and the Dodda Ganesh Temple beside it, but they were both interesting (though the bull was more comical than imposing). Worship and commerce jostle each other in these places, as vibrantly as they must have done in the cathedrals of medieval Europe.
     After a few wrong turns I reached the Lal Bagh Botanical Gardens---and made a circuit of this beautiful and impressive park, trying to exit in the right direction. The varied plantings, the Tank (its water green rather than blue), the many strolling couples and families---even the adivasi [tribals] camped in a corner---made a peaceful respite. Finally, a last hectic mile back to the Bangalore Club, a shower, a lot of liquids, and a rest day today . . .

Rishi Valley

Rishi Valley
     Now that my stay is over, I want to put down some impressions (helped by the starkness of the contrast between RV and crowded, chaotic, dirty Bangalore and its endless din). Although from the start I loved RV (which includes a Krishnamurti Study Centre and the outreach programs), and its school (RVS), every aspect is becoming more precious as I see how utterly unusual it is.
     "Impressive" and "inspiring" are the words Rishi Valley summons for me. Like SG, it has its location going for it--but unlike SG, RV largely created its setting, reforesting a barren, arid area, over 80 years, so that birds and other wildlife returned, erosion was slowed, and the bare ground bloomed. The green quiet, the closeness to nature coupled with the sophistication of the inhabitants: that's a rare combination.
     The place makes a first impression, but so do its people: faculty in lovely saris, lungis, or shalwar kameez; students in kurtas (with some western attire on males). In Bangalore even the inherently graceful sari is often garish polyester, with glittery edges and harsh patterns. The RVS students look comfortable, informal, but not casual: and only now in the city do I understand how tasteful their clothing was. Beautifully printed and draped fabrics everywhere made RVS as pleasing to the eyes indoors as the flowers and greenery outdoors.
     RVS's melding of Indian tradition, in setting, dress, and the school singing-assemblies, is balanced by its progressivism, formed by the philosophy of J.K. Krishnamurti.  Co-ed and casteless since its founding (very unusual in 1930), emphasizing cooperation over competition, RVS also balanced its elitism with involvement in the rural villages (through the RV health and education programs) and its focus on the environment and conservation. RVS is a working example of how the world could live a simpler, less energy-hungry and water-wasting life.
     The extremely unpretentious facilities still manage to nurture academic excellence, as RVS attracts the very best students and faculty. In this year's annual Education World survey, RVS came top out of all boarding schools in India: the "most admired" (despite its deliberately low profile), ahead of the much better-known Doon School. Many teachers here have come from a professional career in their field; high-calibre students focus on learning, with so few distractions while they're at school. Sitting in classes with the bright, engaged students and their dedicated, excellent teachers was inspiring for me. Students initiated contact with me outside of class, chatting about their holidays, the school, their music, their future, etc. Faculty invited me into their homes for tea or a meal, to yoga classes (begun with a chant in Sanskrit), and into their classrooms. Everyone patiently answered my endless questions.
     I'd been told before I arrived that RV is unique: now I begin to understand just how true that is, and in how many ways.
     

Leaving Rishi Valley
         Day 12, and time to leave (though I'd happily have stayed longer). I came  to RV in a cab from the airport, arranged by the school: $50. To Bangalore itself I decided to take a bus from the town nearest the school: $2. The three-and-a-half hour ride was cheaper than the subsequent 15-minute auto-rickshaw ride to the Bangalore Club.
     I sat on the back seat of the old bus, because that's where my bags, and the open window, were, not thinking what sort of ride the worn springs and out-holed roads would provide. Long-disused posting muscles were called on, as I rose to accommodate the "trot" of the jolting vehicle.
     The bus-driver's style didn't differ much from the taxi-driver's, though the weight, chassis, suspension, etc, did: swerving, passing, accelerating and braking, with horn accompaniment at all times (Jinny and Clare, if you're reading this, do NOT visit any cities in India: your sensitive hearing will be assaulted mercilessly). The brakes, so essential, squealed ominously, and a few times I thought of my dear children, in case those became my final thoughts.
     Next to me sat two schoolgirls, their curiosity maximum but their English minimal. Photos of my children (including Paul) passed from hand to hand in the last three rows, with voluminous commentary in Telugu. Then my passport (with Chinese and Indian visas) and a $20 bill, were huge attractions.  The girl beside me wanted to keep the bill and give me 20 INR: I had to explain that the US 20 was worth 900 rupees!
     The girls got off at a town bus stop, where a group of waiting schoolgirls gasped audibly and stared at the white-haired white woman in the native bus. Some boys were bolder: they got on to chat, hopping off when the conductor appeared. Snack-sellers also boarded: at least one looked to be about ten, but was clearly not in school. And a loudly-complaining chicken also rode with us, in a cotton bag. A university-student now sat next to me: her English was good, and she explained that she was a farmer's daughter, but she and her sister were both studying in Bangalore.  For women, India's future generally looks better.
     For the last hour the bus was fully packed (but the hectic driving style was not moderated). An extra person squeezed onto the back seat. The jasmine-adorned schoolgirl-passengers were long gone, replaced by young men packed in comme des harengs en boite. The boulder-strewn landscape and green fields disappeared, replaced by buildings and construction projects. It's sometimes difficult to discern when a building is going up, when it's coming down, and when it's stalled: chaos prevails on any site.
     Within an hour of reaching the city limits I was longing to turn about-face and return to Rishi Valley. The city is the noisiest I've ever experienced: an assault on the ears and the spirit. The air is visibly charged with construction dust and car exhaust (auto-rickshaws seem to emit clouds). The ground is littered with debris: there are a very few concrete posts with tiny bowls, perhaps meant for cigarette butts, because they just mock the idea of rubbish bins. Everyone simply drops wrappers, fruit peels, papers, plastic bottles, et al, where they stand. So a sidewalk vendor of sweets on small shiny aluminum plates will be marked by trails of the plates, in all directions. In fact, the sidewalks deserve a separate entry: I took some photos of them today, and I hope they can be rescued from the useless BlackBerry when I return. Fortunately for me, thanks to a mutual Harvard contact, I can retreat to the blissful quiet of the Bangalore Club---where I also just discovered the library, with (unlike the internet cafes) computers whose keyboards are not a microbiologist's dream . . .
  

Some observations

* A bullock cart, drawn by cattle with high upright horns curving like a lyre, passing a [parked] jeep.

* A handbell, rung in the dining hall, silences 300 people for a full minute before lunch begins.

*The girls' toilet is a squat: just like those in train stations and public squares in Europe when I first travelled there, 40 years ago.

*There are no desserts, but they're not missed, because endless cups of sweet, milky (but not spicy) tea fuel the day.

*Lizards, pi-dogs, stilt-legged cats, and monkeys [bonnet macaques] wander at will.  In the villages there are cows and goats, but I have yet to see a chicken.

*When it's picked young, sliced thin, called "ladyfingers" and served in a delicious sauce, okra can be yummy even to a confirm okra-hater.

*Sandalwood trees are so precious (valuable in monetary terms) that here they grow at the top of 12-foot stone-and-mortar pillars topped with glass shards. Armed gangs [dacoits] have invaded the campus to cut sandalwood, in the past: the surrounding area is extremely poor, so the temptation is great. There is school security, though: two night watchmen like to chat loudly outside my bedroom window at 12, 2, 4 . . . or oftener.

Blackberry is resting

     It turned out to be more difficult than I'd thought, to get a SIM card. At the airport (where my flight arrived at 12:15 AM) I focused only on getting through the throng (tail-end of international arrivals) at Immigration; after a half-night at an airport hotel, I asked my driver, who recognized the phrase "SIM card" but not the rest of the sentence: "Please, may we stop to buy one before leaving Bengaluru environs?"  It turned out that he spoke Telugu only, so we didn't chat on the 2.5 hour drive (where I'd have hated to distract him from the road, in any case). 
     Rishi Valley (named for a wise man, or rishi, who lived here, in legend) is entirely remote: there is no school store where SIM cards are stocked, because, in fact, cellphones are not allowed. Only faculty and visitors may have them, and use them at home, not in front of the children. I've seen only one laptop (a visitor's), no tv, and the computer I'm using is clearly middle-aged, if not elderly. It would be interesting for our students to see how a school functions with old, but still appropriate, technology: pencils and paper.  One morning, however, the entire upper school watched a TED talk on a big screen, and there is a computer-teacher, and a lab.
     Yesterday it finally occurred to me that I could at least take photos with my charged but not connected BlackBerry: first, though, I must ask about the etiquette.  Visiting the rural school this morning, for instance, I wouldn't have been certain that photography would be welcome ...

Leaving France, 9 September

The Mediterranean--a thin sheet of stainless steel at Marseilles, a bezel of brilliant lapis at Toulon and Aiguebelle (it's not called the Cote Azur for nothing--and sorry, I can't make accent marks here), and those pointed cypress, parasol trees, and grey-green shrubs that punctuate the coast.          Three fantastic days with my English-German-French-speaking friends {where a conversation, and even a sentence, can traverse all three languages before it ends); their lovely house overlooking the sea gained an additional adornment in the form of an exquisite and charming, blond and blue-eyed, grand-daughter, just one year old.  [Aargh: beeping sound suggests power is failing.  Later]
Noted: lingerie ads in the metro used to mean pictures of half-naked women at every turn. This time I didn't notice one: it it sensitivity to Islam (i.e. fear of the loss of a market) that caused a change?

From Bangalore Airport to Rishi Valley, 10 September

        Driving in India is not for the faint-hearted.  I was only a terrified passenger, trying to keep my eyes on the deep-red earth, the colorful village women, etc., and not on the pi-dogs who prefer to lie in the road, the monkeys who try to cross in front of cars, the truckloads of goats (men clinging on outside) we passed, not to mention the humans who, thanks to near-constant horn-blasts, scurry out of the way.  Several times I held my breath as we cleared a bus or clung to the road-edge with inches to spare; once I closed my eyes as we overtook a cement-truck around a blind curve.  [All in reverse, as it were: driving is on the left, a legacy of the Raj,]  Most of the roads around Bangalore are very good---better than in RI (faint praise); as the area became really rural, the roads crumbled at the edges, washed out in patches, and acquired deep potholes.
          We sped through many tiny villages: chaotic and ugly, as randomly scattered concrete boxes, some covered with ads or graffiti, have replaced indigenous architecture (the old, rounded thatched roofs, which must have given villages the look of a conclave of haystacks, are rare now). I never saw a village woman with an ounce of fat on her. Men were thin or stocky, pencil-legged, or supporting a belly, but the women were willowy. Occasionally a Muslim woman in black hijab, a crow alighting in a flock of parrots.
         The landscape is not lovely, but impressive: from the flat terrain rise a few massive, upthrust, red cliffs--as if a bit of Arizona had been air-dropped in.  Boulders litter their feet, though elsewhere the rust-red soil seems to have been sifted, rock-free. Wood is fuel, and can be eaten by ants, so the few fences are upright slices of granite, formerly, at least, cheap.  There's the odd tree, and startling magenta bougainvillea can light up a village corner, but much is dryland scrub, crops, and agave- or yucca-like plants with silvery sword-leaves. Arizona, again..