India - January 2005

#4 - Thursday, January 6, 2005

The Work World of India:

1) Banking:  This week, running low on funds, I took out one of my US $100’s and trotted off to the “Black Market” to cash it into Rupees.  (You can get 4,150R for $100 US at the bank; 4,300R in the ‘Black Market”.)  This “Black” market is not difficult to find.  It is one of the popular internet shops.

Off I trot, black umbrella held aloft, given it is 11:30am and the sun is becoming intense.  Up the lane from the main street (which is past the milking corner), then up around another corner: dogs, cows, scooters, rickshaws, bicycles, the children (out of school for lunch), the beggars, the sewer smoldering along beside you.  But it is a good! day, like most days have been.  I have gone this route many times, so do not expect any surprises.  That! should have warned me.  Always expect surprises.

I hand over my bill and sit down to wait.  It’s a considerable wait…. 10 min. or so.  I am surprised.  I see a discussion happening, but assume it is for some reason unconnected to me.  (I am feeling somewhat guilty, knowing my bills have been wet… from keeping them in the freezer.  What can I say… it is the only vault I could find.  But surely… I tell myself… they are not that disfigured.)

Ahhh… all is well, they come with my money.  He counts it out:  The sum is 4150R.  “Really?” (still feeling slightly guilty).  “Why?” I say.  “Mmmm”, he says somewhat shyly, “The picture… it is too small.”  “The picture??” I say not understanding a thing.  “Yes, the picture on the front of the bill.   It is the small one.  The money it is old.  It is not worth as much as the new ones with the big picture.”

I am stunned.  Oh! Yes… my ‘peace’ did escape me. “That is not true!” I say… somewhat dogmatically.  “They are all legal tender.”   “Well perhaps you are going to Chennai or Pondicherry,” he says… trying to make me happy.  “They are bigger… so maybe different.  Here, the bank they only give 4,150R.”  “They are cheating.” I say.  Convinced of the truth “I! know.”  “Yes” he says.  “That is true.  But this cannot be discussed with the bank.”  I know he is right.  The bank only gives 4,150R anyway… what am I talking about???  “No” I say, “You are right.”  Still wanting to shoot someone! I take back my $100US.  “I will come tomorrow,” I say. “With the right! picture.”

I rifle through my bills when I get home.  Hmmm… half ‘small’ and half ‘big’.  Well I shall just try to corner the market on ‘big’ picture bills… I’ll ask all my friends who are leaving this month.  I wonder… WHAT? is this about??  It is very possible this is the way to hedge their bets on the declining US dollar.  Truly… that would be very ‘Indian”.  It would be a ‘story’ that makes sense in India.

2) The ‘Tried and True’:  I have been watching a ‘modern’ house being built (not a farmer’s hut).  In the afternoons, when I sit on my roof deck, I can hear them working on the house behind.  There are about 6 workers most days… 3 male and 3 females.  Recently they have been working on its roof-deck, building the water storage tank (gravity feed is used for the kitchen); and a raised ‘sky light’ over the stairway up to the tank. They are being built with bricks and mortar.  The women are very beautiful in their colorful saris.

How to explain my fascination:  It was the building of the ‘roofs’ of these structures, which kept me mesmerized.  First… long, ‘relatively’ straight tree poles about 3 inches in diameter and 5-6+ feet long are placed over the cross beams (of the same type of pole).  The cross poles (about 4 of them) stick out through the walls about 2 feet down from the top of the structure.  The poles are placed side by side, so the whole roof is covered in poles.  Then… a tarp is laid over the poles… an old tattered yellow plastic tarp  (since then, I also have seen grass used, instead of a tarp); then a fine red dirt is lifted up.. pan by pan and scattered on top of the tarp.  I have watched them sift this dirt… pan by pan.  One woman sifts; another woman stoops, scooping to fill up pans; and a third woman carries a pan on her head to the structure.  She stands on a brick so she can reach up, giving the pan to the man on the top.  The man on the top is straddling the roof and he gently tosses the sand…smoothing it out with a trowel.  About 6 inches of sand covers the tarp when they are finished.  In the meantime, two other men have been mixing grey sand with large pebbles… the sand having been sifted earlier.  They are making very soupy cement.  

After the sand, bricks are placed… covering the roof.  One woman puts bricks in a pan… about 6 or 7; another woman with pan on her head walks gracefully toward the structure.  Again she stands on a brick, and lifts the pan off her head, reaching high up toward the man above.  NOW comes the cement:  Same procedure… cement into pans… pan on head… pan by pan it is passed to the person above.  The workman working the cement on the roof is obviously ‘head man’… he is working with great care… smoothing the cement out with a pole.  It’s soupy, so it kind of just sinks in around the bricks.  I guess the rocks just sink down??? Eventually, there is a smooth surface on top.  For the sides… it is now level with the structure’s side bricks, so boards have been laced along the side to stop the cement seeping over.

That’s the roof,” I think. 

But no… there are several more days; and several more layers.

After the soupy cement dried, ¼ inch steel rods were placed in a grid across the roof.  At each corner of each square (the roof is about 4 ft X 8ft) they twist a metal fastener.  Then… more cement (no rocks this time) is smoothed over the grid.  Next day! Another layer.  The sides are built up with bricks about 2 brick high all the way around the edges.  Now all surfaces are plastered.  The full structure is now complete, I think.  It has been totally plastered… except where the cross poles were sticking out.  They are finished, I think, though I do wonder about the holes… maybe the water only goes so high??

Next day!!  The first layers: the poles… the tarp… the bricks… the soupy cement with rocks… they are all taken down from underneath (there was an entrance in the front I could not see).  I can hardly believe it.  It has been a week all told… and 2 small roofs are complete (the second was smaller 3ft X 5ft).  There is much debris to be taken down… and tossed over the back wall.  No ladders; no wheelbarrows; no long handled shovels or rakes.  All implements are short handled in India???

The work was slow and steady and done with care.  But it is SO! far from perfect.  Some cement has slopped down the back wall… it was pretty tricky straddling that back wall, 3 floors off the ground; all the excess sand and broken bricks (pan by pan) are dumped over the back wall into an empty, swampy lot.  Though the roof is steel re-enforced, the brick sides are very rough, given the cement between the bricks is quite gritty.  This structure is definitely not earthquake proof.

Now I have to admit, I have never paid any attention to the makings of a cement roof before!  I have no idea how it is done.  But! for sure, this was not efficient; for sure, it is not ’fully’ stable; and for sure, it will slowly crumble.   It looks pretty good… very smooth! and the plaster/cement finish will be painted a pretty pastel green.  But! within the year, the moisture will have stained the surface, there will be cracks, and chips along the edges.

Obviously this is an old method.  It is a tried and true process well known by the workers.  Perfect it is not.  And this is not a concern.  Everybody is happy… stained houses are OK; cracks are OK; chips are OK.  They are not mended.  What am I to learn here?

3) Bureaucracy, at its sublime best!   A trip to the post office… I have a small parcel I am shipping to family:  a thin book 8” X 12” and 3 little cloth dolls.  (Total value 400R or $12).

I know from past experience (4 years ago) that parcels have to be taken to the tailor to be wrapped in cloth and stitched, prior to the post office accepting them.  But!! I am hopeful that things have changed… they now have organic peanut butter and jam!  Optimistically, I buy paper (2R) and wrap it… no scotch tape available, But! there is duct tape in my house.  The paper is poor quality and quite brittle… so it is well duct taped!  It is small… surely this will be good enough.

I miss the post office the first 2 days of the week, given the money issue… it shuts from 12 – 2pm … so timing is always a bit difficult.  But! on the third day of the week I reach it in time.  “Must be wrapped in cloth,” she says.  “Really? It’s small.” I say, hopefully.  “It’s for your benefit,” she says shyly.  “It protects it.”  From pilfering, she means.  Except, I know from experience… that the tailor pilfers too.

Oh well… off I go.  “Yes” says Murgan, the tailor on the main street.  “I will do tomorrow.  You come tomorrow to pick up”. “Before noon???” I ask.  “Yes, yes… no problem.”   “Cloth dolls,” I say.  “Very cheap!” hoping he will not (or one of his helpers??) find any reason to ‘explore’ the package.

So today… there I am at 11:30am … and there is my little parcel all neatly wrapped in unbleached white cotton, hand stitched ever so carefully:  “20rupies” he says.  “Oh… I only have 18,” I say.  “Not to worry… 15 is good.”  I pay my 18 rupees.  Both of us bobbling our heads like mad… whatever works is good!

Now, I am set:  Off to the post office, to see Indian Bureaucracy in action.  It is very special.  I am musing to myself, as I walk into the office, trying to guess how many people will be part of this transaction.  It is always a wonder:

First person:  the man at the stamp counter.  He takes the parcel (no complaints, I’m relieved.) and weighs it.  
Second person:  the man 2 feet to his right, sitting at a computer… it is now his job to determine the cost.  “411 rupees,” he says; “and 17 rupees to register it.”  “No. No registry,” I say.  (You will remember my parcel is only worth 400 rupees.)  “How many rupees?” I ask again.  The woman (supervisor?) to the “L” now, says “428 rupees.”  “No, no” I say.  “I am not registering it.”  She shakes her head (I know what she is thinking, “Westerners… they are so cheap!”  What is 17 more rupees???  She is right, of course!!)  The man at the computer tells me my amount.  I dig in my purse for the correct change and hand it over. 
Now for the third person:  The bills are handed over to the 3rd man… who brings out the stamps:  51 8R stamps plus a 4R stamp.  They are handed over to the first man… who brings them the 3 feet back to the counter.  I am now directed over to the corner table… to wet-paste on my 52 stamps.

There I am… you will remember my parcel is only 8X12 inches… you! find space on the front of such a parcel for 50+ stamps.  Well, actually not too bad.  Two groups of 25 works: upper right hand corner and lower left hand corner.  That does it.  I then paste… with my index finger… each stamp… now the stamps and the cloth are wet… but so what.  Yes there is a cloth to wipe your fingers… well used, very dirty.

Now you have to ask yourself… 3 or 4 people… for one transaction; and no paste brushes!!!  What is it???

I am quite sure ‘the system’ has not changed (except for the addition of a computer, which are all over India… Modern India!!) since the British were in India.  The banks are the same.  God help you.  Even the stores… there are the help that show you the goods; the ones who write out the bill; the ones who register it in the ledger; the one who takes the goods to the till; the one who takes your money; and finally the one who wraps it… or puts it in a bag.  Never! just one person.  The Indian people love ‘a system’.

Love to all, p

#5 - Thursday, January 20, 2005

Sudden Meetings:

Perhaps I should stop writing these… on my way to the internet shop to send off the last journal page, I had a ‘sudden meeting’ with a cow with red horns. (As if, I need more experiences to write about!)  Standing right in the middle of my path, she tossed her curly red painted horns at me and made a determined waddle in my direction.  It has been some time since I have been around cows.  It occurred to me to just slap her rump and move on by; but, “This is an Indian cow,” I say to myself. “I have no idea what a slap on the rump might mean.”  I chickened out… turned and went another way.  The damn cow is still standing there, I’m sure, right in the middle of the path.  I have had to walk to my e-mail hut by way of the swamp (3 blocks longer)... hopping over the sewage rivers.

Another sudden meeting:  A couple of days ago, I was recovering from a sleepless night, so lying stretched out on my yoga mat up on the roof deck.  (Not sleeping, no not me! regardless of having slept only 3 hours, but reading Joanne Harris’ Chocolat.) Something out of the corner of my eye must have caught my attention, or perhaps my reading attention lapsed.  At any rate, I looked up and there crossing the railing in front of me… 3 feet away… was a rhesus monkey.  Why is this presence so much more intimate than the neighborhood dog?  My visitor sat on the 3 foot high roof top wall and gazed at me.  Well, I simply have no protocol for monkeys: “HI”?  a gentle ‘tut-tut-tut’? a chirp?  I could only stare back. This marvelous (perhaps flea bitten?) creature had little interest in me, and moments later skedaddled across the railing back the way it had come and up the palm tree by the stairwell.  My first visit.

I have seen them scampering about the roofs and railings on the houses across the way, but thought, “Those houses are closer to the park where there are lots of trees, unlikely I will get a visit.”  Funny, how the roles were reversed.  I felt very much ‘in the cage’.  It was my job to behave.  I do know they can play a bit rough.

One of my first ‘sudden meetings’ was a 4-inch, gold colored frog… toad?? on the toilet tank in my outside bath cupboard.  This was the second morning in India.  I was still somewhat tiptoeing around wondering what was on the floor, or around the corner.  I pushed in the creaky metal door of the cupboard and there it was staring at me.  What to do?  I was not about to sit down on the toilet, with my back to it!  Fortunately, a small bucket was at hand, and I offered it the option.  (Well pushed the bucket in its direction… a bit.)  Great! It jumped in.  But then what?? I dithered.  Throw it in the toilet… I couldn’t.  I back out of the cupboard, frog in bucket a bit dazed, me desperately wanting to get rid of it... quite terrified it would leap onto me.  I actually attempted to dump it over the railing.  It clung to the bucket.  How??  Finally, somewhat distressed (no doubt both of us), I tossed it toward the steps that lead up to the roof deck.  Yes! It took a couple of huge hops and was up in the palm tree.  Thank. God.  Hmmm, I do look each morning … so far only mosquitoes.  (Each time I hope! they are not the malarial kind.)

Then, there was that wonderful black mother sow.  I was on my way to a 5 pm meditation at Shivashaktirama (A very little Hindu woman swami … 4ft. maybe… who, with eyes closed… absolutely radiates love.)  Anyway…  I am late, so decide to cross the field/swamp to go the quick way.  Two small streams have to be crossed… a bit dicey… as one hops from rock to rock.  One does not want to slip… I’m sure the streams are mostly sewage.  The second swamp is covered in green algae.  There I am in the middle of the swamp… no place to run, and in front of me, about 10 feet off, deep in a pond of muck I see the grand ol’ mother sow rise up out of the deep… dripping, god knows what!  “My God!” I silently scream.  “Surely she will not come toward me!”  Funny how all those hunting scenes with attacking boars come immediately to mind.  I did pause and wait.  She merely ambled off into the thicket.  I ambled (knees shaking) on to my meditation… ‘mother love’ and ‘mud dripping mother sows’… the paradox that is India.

There’s one more.  I was sitting under the awning (read tarp) outside the “German Bakery” (the bakery is a totally thatched building, walls and roof) drinking my ‘filtered’ coffee and perusing the newspaper.  From my peripheral vision, I notice the ‘banana’ woman enter the compound… tub of bananas on her head to sell.  This is her usual route.  I don’t pay much attention.  She starts to head toward the room at the back of the e-mail hut at the front of the compound (kind of a bunk house, I think, for ‘the boys’ who run the e-mail hut).  All of a sudden she is crouching, backpedaling and screeching at the top of her lungs.  This really is unusual behavior.  (Being the ever polite Canadian, however, I don’t ‘react’.)   The staff run out of the bakery and around the corner to look into the problem… crisis?  When they get within sight of what she is screaming at, I see that the 2 year old who has run with the rest is grabbed and held.  The banana woman remains entirely still, in a crouch, whimpering.  I can’t imagine what is threatening her?  No one is moving to do anything, though they all look ‘cautious’.  I still do not move… why go toward someplace where others are backing away?  (The tsunami is still somewhat in my consciousness… perhaps we are all a little over anxious.)

Gradually, things seem to return to normal.  Nothing has really happened.  People resume their activities.  I look at the waiter with a questioning look:  “What?”  “Oh… very big!” he says.  “What?”  I do not get it. ‘ Rat?’ I say.  “No… he wiggles his finger.”  Augh.  A snake.  Oh yea!  I do know they have snakes here. 

Later in the e-mail hut, I hear the discussion:  A cobra.  I am very glad I remained seated.

PS…

One of the mother sows was carted away, as I wrote these pages at home yesterday.  But you cannot imagine how.  It is the Harvest Festival this weekend.  Everyone is wishing everyone else “Happy Pongol”! like “Happy New Year’s” .  So it seems it is time to ‘tag’ all the little pigs.  There has been much squealing in the bushes over the past 2 days.  At the corner of the street, right in the middle of the roadway, I actually see it firsthand.  There are 2 men in dhotis (a sheet that can be worn as a long skirt, or the bottom brought up and tied at the waist, so it looks like shorts)… farmers, I assume.  They have thrown a net over a couple of piglets.  Then, one at a time, the little piglets are plucked out, sat upon and something? is done to them.  (I can only think that they are tagged somehow.); and then released, squirming and squealing the whole time. 

But then, there is the dear mother sow.  Soon after this first kafuffle, there is a second one at the opposite end of the street (off the R hand corner of my house, as I sit looking at things).   A mother pig is caught in the net.  She is soon neatly hog-tied, as the saying goes. Her mouth is clamped with tape and feet tied together:  Again, the fierce squealing.  You can’t imagine:  Cars, bicycles, rickshaws… all weaving around the mayhem.  “What next?” I wonder.  Well, I never would have guessed. 

The farmers have a bicycle and yup! up onto the rack at the back of the seat goes dear mother sow (where the man’s wife and child … or two …usually sit.)  The 2 guys struggle like mad trying to tie this huge sow onto the back carrier. The dear soul, gagged or not, screaming with each hitch of the rope.   It didn’t take long.  Off up the road they went… pig and farmer…and bicycle.  I assume a feast is in the making. ‘But who will be feasting?’  I wonder… most of the Hindus in these parts are vegetarian.  Who would be eating pig… particularly these pigs who feast on sewage!

I have since heard that the pigs are wild, and are hunted by the “Untouchable Cast”.

Love to you all... p

My host has arrived in India, so my time has come to move.  I have found a cottage at an ashram (Ganesan’s place) a short way out of town. It is a very quiet and beautiful spot.  Will catch you up soon.

#6 – January 29, 2005

From the Riotous to the Sublime:

I have moved into the ashram; and am back in my cottage after the most sublime discourse this morning. Tears flood me. I sit down at my desk by the window and listen to the birds: So many beautiful songbirds. I must be able to hear at least 4 different songs, as well as, some chirps, some 'tooo-itts', and some long soft 'hoooos'. There is also the whisper of leaves.  The beautiful sounds, plus the dapple of sunshine dominate my senses. These days I am not gazing upon the mountain, I am surrounded by the 'holiness' of the mountain, or so it seems.

Leaves fall gently, continuously. Blooms lay scattered like art work beneath the trees: red hibiscus; cream trumpets; tiny 4 petalled, gem-like blooms, with brilliant orange stems; bright raspberry red 'powder puffs'; one large tree has orchid-like hot pink blooms. I think there may be more than 10 different types of blooming trees on the property. So many are fragrant. The perfume drifts on the soft, moist air.

Today during the discourse, two blue butterflies danced together, swooping and soaring in the sunlight, just beyond the open porch where we sit (about 15 to 20 people). If you ever saw "Out of Africa"... it is like that porch: a cool shaded living area, an extension of the house. A cool gentleness pervades the grounds, influencing the proceedings. People love to come to Ganesan's home. One feels at peace, upon entering the grounds.

There are 5 acres of grounds, with perhaps 5 moderate terraces (a foot to foot and a half in variance) and 500 (?) trees. The ground beneath the trees is bare; the color of the earth is a red-brown. Weeds and grass are scanty in India. Weeding does not appear to be necessary. The grounds are raked daily... always, the driveway has the design of the rhythmic sweep of a rake. There are many large trees planted singly, with a good space around them; and then rows of smaller trees, sometimes paralleling the terraces; sometimes dividing up larger areas so there is an intimacy within the grounds. Lining the driveway and the periphery of the property are 3 lines of parallel trees: one like a tall 12 - 15ft birch; one an 8 - 10ft straight dark green, like a 4 cornered cactus; one a shorter 6 ft. deciduous, with star like leaves. These tight rows, I have discovered, are to help keep out a troupe of local monkeys. Around each tree, along each row, and dividing space are mounds of earth... to keep water around the tree bases. There is a massive open well beside the house, 14ft. in diameter and very deep... I’m not sure I could see the water at its base. The trees are watered daily during the dry season.

It is a delicate garden. How can this be so, when the garden is primarily of trees? Many of the trees, particularly those planted in rows, have a feathery leaf... or 5 narrow leaves creating a star, upon star, upon star... or a 'bunch' of delicate leaves spilling from a springy branch like waterfalls. There is also a tree like a Norfolk pine… so fluffy. There are a few marigolds sprinkled here and there at the base of a tree; a line of Sun Rose plants beside the house. The leafiness; the perfume; the sun dappled bare earth; the song birds and chirps; the butterflies; the pervading quiet surround me. People seldom talk as they enter the grounds, though there is no request for quiet.

During the day the voices around the grounds are softly modulated. The staff (about 6 people) seem naturally gentle..... hushed for the birds? There is soft laughter; there are quiet instructions; the padding of naked feet; the tinkle of a girl's anklet. Occasionally, a sharp 'heeeeud! heeeeud! heeeeud! as the grounds keeper yips, and shoos the monkeys' attempt at invasion. There are actually two main houses: Ganesan has one house, pink plaster with red tile roof; and off in the SE corner of the property is his secretary's house, stone with a slate roof. They have worked together for 20 years, or so.  (She is ‘the face’ to the world; Ganesan likes to remain in the background, away from the local politics.) There are 2 other buildings, each containing 2 cottages... so we are 4 guests at the ashram.

I can sit at my desk for several hours at a time. In itself, nothing is special. The first few days I felt confined in a small 12 ft. square room, in contrast to my other living quarters: the large airy apartment, with the open rooftop, and the bold uplifting mountain with all of life parading in front of me. Here I am simply bathed in gentleness. My 3 grilled windows have delicate silk panels, gathered top and bottom, held with a length of wire. Each window is shaded; each view is of dappled sunshine and delicate trees. Simple. Spacious. Gentle. Mostly… .

My bed is a concrete shelf with a 2-inch futon. Simple, yes; Gentle, no. I must find a second soft mattress to add to the futon. A concrete shelf for books is at the head of the bed; to the right a window with another concrete shelf under it, window height for my desk, with the room’s one chair. On the opposite wall from the bed, a brown painted metal cupboard for clothes; and a 3 ft. high concrete kitchen counter with 'Indian' sink (concrete, in the corner and hard to reach); two open shelves above the counter (the top shelf I can't reach). The floor is a smooth concrete, with several straw mats. Beside the metal cupboard is the door into my concrete bathroom: sink, toilet, shower... all cold water. Yes! a sit down toilet, but... with a 'hose' setup: No toilet paper to be used. I have now managed its use without completely soaking the cuffs of my slacks. There is yet more technique I need to learn. Why is it assumed one knows these things!!

Then there are the discourses. Ganesan is 68 yrs. old and well educated. Except for his University years, he lived in the cloister of the Ramana Ashram for 60 years, a bachelor. He is the grand nephew of Ramana Maharshi, and spent his first 14 years with Ramana Maharshi who died in 1950. His father was the president of the Ramana Maharshi Ashram.  Now one of Ganesan's brothers is president.  Ganesan has interviewed many of the old disciples, who spent time with the sage, Ramana Maharshi. Ganesan likens Ramana Maharshi to Jesus and Buddha, in that he has given to the world a new direction ... a simple entry into the spiritual. He was equally as 'realized'... a saintly sage. The 'teachings' shift you to the 'Now'... the integrity of the moment. "Truth' is a knowing... not a belief, not faith, not devotion, not knowledge. When one hears 'Truth', it is touching: Thus my tears. A good thing he speaks for only an hour.... and I can escape to my cottage.

So, I am in retreat: Except for the e-mail hut! the tailor! the grocery shopping! and my three new friends.  For a couple of months only, of course… there is still my life back home.

Love to all, Paula