India - February 2005

#7 -  February 9, 2005

(This entry is going to come in installments.  I did one earlier, and it got erased before it got sent.  Urghhh)  

#1 - The Wash Stone:

I forgot to mention that my cottage is beside the ‘wash stone’.  I am fascinated.  There it sits in the corner of a 4 ft. square slab of concrete, with curbs.  The slab is slightly slanted so the water runs toward a drain.  The wash stone is a concrete rectangle about 2 1/2ft. high; 1 1/2ft. wide; 2 1/2ft. in length… with a rough concrete surface.  This is a very sophisticated wash stone’… most are slabs of granite, propped against rocks, in a dirt yard.

Staff comes to the wash stone daily:  Such rhythm, such wonderful sloshing and slapping.  Things have generally been soaked prior to the trip to the wash stone; then one at a time, each item is brought out onto the slab.  First, the item is kneaded, rather like a lump of bread dough:  push the cloth toward the center, flip; push the cloth into the center, flip.  More soap is added; or the item is flattened out and the ‘blue bar’ of soap is used to remove stains with a brush.   Second stage is holding the item under the tap… lots of water; then back to the stone it goes, with a couple of slaps down onto the surface.  Back to kneading… push into the center, flip; push into the center flip.  Back to the water… a good rinse.  The item is then tossed into the carrying bucket.  Each item is handled separately.  Six or seven items are enough for one wash, from jeans to saris.  It is a daily ritual.   

What is the fascination?  It is as engrossing as a dance performance; they bend as they flip or slap; squat when they knead; then swing to the tap, bending to catch all the water.  It is, as if, it is all one motions.  The timing is due to long practice… each motion done with precision.  I have watched my neighbor, Annette, from Tennessee doing her wash on the stone.  It’s just not the same.  She does what I do:  bucket of soapy water; placed on the stone; with our things in the bucket, we slosh and scrub… with one leg propped up on the stone to support the back; then wring things out; throw out the soapy water and refill the bucket.  Repeat.  But the rhythm?  We are so jerky!  The rhythm is learned from childhood, I’m sure.  It’s generational.  We don’t have a hope! 

I will also add that we are nowhere near as beautiful.  The young girls come in their beautiful saris; ankle bracelets tingling.  The sight, the sound, the rhythm: so beautiful.  Is it the sari that determines the rhythm?

#2 – Pradakshina:

This past week, I was invited to join a group in their pradakshina… by ox cart!  I have mentioned pradakshina before.  Every full moon the villagers, as well as, many pilgrims and families come to town to do pradakshina… the 14km walk around the sacred mountain of Arunachula.  This is a 6,000 year-old custom.

There is now a paved road.  Like all roads in India, trees flank this road.  Lovely old trees line the roads, previously to provide shade; now they are painted with a white strip to provide direction to cars at night, as well as, to provide shade.  Many continue to walk and cart the roads of India.

Arunachula is known as the most ancient sacred site in the world… this is recorded in the Hindu manuscripts.  I also heard today, that the rocks were tested by a Dutch fellow in the thirties, and determined to be the oldest granite in the world.

I state this to set the tone.  The whole trip was one of mystery and ancientness (is that a word??).  There we were on an ox cart; visiting 1000 year old temples, and shrines from the mediaeval times, and markers from unknown times.  Eight directions are marked by linghams (5 ft. black granite markers) or if the direction is important, according to the mythology, there is also a temple. The directions remain important in the Hindu mythology, as they are with the North American Indian mythology.  “The Unknown” is key in mythology:  Directions are to help.

We didn’t enter anywhere near all the temples, shrines, old burial chambers of Saints.  There must be fifty or more.  But we were given a tour of 3 temples; a couple of shrines; and a couple of burial chambers.  There was a European friend of the organizer who has taken an interest in the mythology.  It is totally overwhelming without a guide.

At each site, the priest takes over:  bare chested, a dhoti turned up above his knees (inner sanctums of temples are hot!).  The priest leads us through the maze of rooms into the inner chambers.  In the very center is a statue of the temple god; a sacred item; or a picture of a Saint.  The priest carries out the ceremony using ghee, camphor, flowers, and incense… maybe even a stomp on a lime! 

He alone works in the innermost chamber, maybe 4 ft. high… maybe only 3ft. in diameter.  There is no light, but the light created by a candle and the camphor he burns.  It is extremely hot, even in our outer chamber… we stand silently, dripping, with hands in the Namaste position.  Fifteen of us squished into perhaps an 8ft. chamber.  The chant begins:  The priest undulating with the chant… waving a plate before the god.  The scents and smoke permeate the air.  We are barefoot… where thousands (millions?) have stood before us.  The walls are smeared with the ages.

When the god has received its due, the priest exits the inner chamber to bring its blessing to us.  He carries a plate with ash and ochre.  Each of us bows our head before him and he smears ash across our forehead and smudges red ochre into our 3^rd eye, that space which is just above the nose and between the brows.  Hands still clasped in Namaste over our hearts, we exit.  The ash and ochre… the darkness… the smell… the sweat… the naked body: a deep cave-like experience.  I am always overwhelmed… then slightly irked, as the donation plate is passed around.

We started about 4:30 pm in a gentle late afternoon breeze.  By half way, twilight had come.  Twilight is very short, and then it is dark… the pitch dark of the country.  The stars dazzle.  At this point, we were travelling into a small village off the pradakshina road, on the mountainside of the road.  It could have been mediaeval times:  huts with palm thatch; fires in the courtyard or glimpsed through a doorway, families gathered around the fire for dinner.  The village surrounds a quite large temple for Shiva, not the 15-acre temple of downtown (the largest Shiva temple in India), but a good size… about the size of most Gothic churches.  One of our guides is from this village and tells us his family has worshiped at this temple through generations.  He proudly shows us a thousand year old statue; and guides us to his temple’s priest.  Apparently there is a door in the lower chamber that leads one to a tunnel running under Arunachula to the large temple on the opposite side of the mountain… when was it dug… for what purpose?  We are told little.

It seems as if nothing has changed over the centuries.  The ox, the driver and his chirping to his beast, the huts and temple, the soft evening breeze, the fires, the stars in the heavens… none of it has changed.  This is not something I will forget.  This is one of those times when the whole body/soul are gripped… by something more.  It is more than the mere event, words, and shared knowledge.  The smells, the light the sounds…. all the senses are involved and the tips of the toes hum, as I recall and write down what I can bring forth into words.

Love to all, p

#8 - Monday, February 14, 2005

 Twilight:

Hurrying, I left the e-mail hut at 6:30pm, rushing to get to a 6:30pm dinner engagement.  It's about a 7 - 8 block distance.  Perhaps 3 blocks north, and 4 or so blocks east... just past the 'milking station' on the main road.  It was twilight.

The end of the day comes quickly in India.  It's a smoky twilight.  At 4:30pm the sun is still hot and I use my umbrella walking in the sun.  By 5:00pm the quiet sets in, people hang about their doorsteps, and stop to talk.  By 5:30pm the heat hangs in the air... thickening.  It's a moist, humid sunset, already showing a dimness, a hint of dark.  By 6:00pm it is darkening and beautiful.  It's, as if, the whole day from dawn 'til dusk hangs in the air... its' color, scent, and activity.  This is the glimpse of India I love most, and look for each day.  It's kind of a search because it doesn't jump out and grab you, like our sunsets... bright and lingering.  This one is quick and sultry, and it's dark before you know it.

Yesterday, I walked through this moment on my way to dinner (leisurely, this day).  The light was fading.  By chance! I looked to the left on my way up the street.  At one part, there is a dirt road that veers off through on open lot heading toward the open, ungroomed, dirt, cricket fields.  There, in that space, the horizon is at a considerable distance and the fullness of the end of day lingered. I paused.  Breathing it in.  It is not just the colour.  There was scent.... all the blossoms (thank goodness there is no open sewer on this street); and a sepia shading... like a camera with gauze over the lens.  It was changing quickly... blending into the darkness.

On my right were the doorways to homes and shops with people talking quietly.  India is not always noisy.  This is a slow time, prior to the women making dinner, a time still too warm for fires to be lit.  At this time of day a mysterious atmosphere prevails.  Perhaps the unknown threats of night, always holds some fears?  Perhaps it is just the surreal magic of the changing colors?

When I reach the main road, taking a right hand turn, I glanced around picking my way through the traffic:  bicycles, rickshaws, autos, people walking, a cow, a fast moving truck honking its way through the mass.  What I noticed most was the road strewn with marigolds.  There must have been a funeral today... a big one, given the number of marigolds squashed and scattered on the road... along with massive strings of marigolds, some with ribbons.

Small shops line this road on the right; the Ramana Ashram walls line the road on the left.  It's the time all the sadhus find their supper at the various ashrams, so the road is quite crowed with these bare chested men in orange dhotis, carrying their 'begging' cans.  I walk by an ashram priest, magnificent in his white cloth... dhoti and shawl... a fine head of white hair and beard:  Very distinguished and attractive, maybe in his late 40's.  The devotion in the main hall of the ashram is about to start.  The tea stands, the coconut hut, the fruit carts… all had people lingering, for an end of the day drink or nibble.

As I walk, I think... this is the heart of India.  This pulsating, earthy, lingering humanity enveloped in a smoky twilight, scented.  Most ignore me, or so it seems.  I am a westerner, gross and crude according to their standards.  Earlier, at the e-mail hut, I heard a young man ask a young German woman, "Why don't you wear a sari?"  You could tell, he would have found her much more appealing if she had.  Comparatively, no matter our manner, we lack grace, in their eyes. 

In the final block, I weave my way in and out, over the cow droppings, squished limes and marigolds at the corner shrine, then past a half dozen rickshaws parked waiting for customers.  One of them calls my name.... "Poola?"  I say, "After dinner."  I'm a steady customer for this group these days.  It's a 20R rickshaw ride out to my cottage.  The light is almost gone as I walk up the stairs to the "Roof Top Cafe".  It's only taken me 5 minutes.

Thinking of you all... 26 more days to go. p 

# 9 - February 21/05

Summer Time:

So! It is summer, the season that eventually leads up to a scorching heat.  The heat by 11:30am or so is radiating off the dry brown earth.  We have moved already from 28-29-30 to 34+C.  Not many notches, but a decided difference.  Another jump in temperature is expected around March 8^th… early summer over by then.  No reprieve to come, until the monsoons in July.  It continues to work its way up to a scorching 40+ for May and June.  Monsoons come in July and last until mid-October, then there is a slow build to the warm, breezy winter, which is at its peak in January.  Winter can include frosty mornings for a week or two, though there is warmth as soon as the sun rises, always.

The summer heat is a dry heat:  A heat that is pleasant to feel as it washes over you when you step out of the door onto the warm earth.  But! don’t DO anything! from noon until 4pm.  One stays in doors, and embroiders or mends (even reading is too much). Obviously those who have lived here for generations can keep active, but it must be exhausting.  I drip the instant I move.  Even 4pm is too early for me.  I have the rickshaw driver come around 5pm to take me to dinner.  My favorite cooling drinks are fresh squeezed limes with water or soda, and ‘yogurt’ milk.  Salt can be added to either.  This yogurt milk was my favorite drink in Turkey.  Unfortunately, it cannot be bought in the stores here… so a treat, only available when someone makes homemade yogurt.

The monkeys are really feisty.  Is it the hot weather or what??  There is a troop of, at least, 30-40 in the area.  They seem to be hanging around a lot right now.  Wrong word!  They are making trouble… a lot!  Getting into whatever they can.  My neighbor, Annette, left her bag of clothes pegs by the line on Ganesan’s roof.  Gone!  That day in Satsang, the monkeys were hanging from the eves, jumping at each other to snatch the bag… like a bunch of 3 or 4 year olds, on the loose with high spirits and… muscle!  When the rickshaw driver comes to the front gate, I am very tenuous as I open it.  I best not have a plastic bag (no matter how small) in my hand, or they will come straight toward me, swaggering on all fours…. with a menacing growl… definitely prepared to take your lunch, books or garbage.  It matters not.  It will be gone in a flash.  You don’t have a chance, even if you could stand your ground.

The twilight journal pages were definitely the sunset of my trip.  Since then, I find myself organizing to finish off, and get myself home.  This includes the contemplation of, “Do I come back?”  Day by day, the numbers of Westerners is dwindling.  There are a few hardy souls who will stay through May/June, but most, if they are staying in India for the year, go north or to a hill station.

One of the people I have met recently has leased a house for a year, starting next week.  Patricia is about 50 yrs. old, lives in North Carolina, grew up in Brazil, and is originally from Germany.  (She has a very interesting accent.)  Her plans are to come and go from this apartment over the next year… as she travels about India.  It will cost her about $100 US per month:  A very nice suite, on the top floor of a 3-story home.  Her balcony is off both the bedroom and the front room, which has a very nice bowed window (meaning grill, of course); and there is a rooftop, which is available to her.   She plans to have it thatched… the only place to be in the afternoons.  All in all, very nice… and new!  Another friend is from Denmark and she leased her place starting last November.  She will be here for 2 years.  Her place is also about $100 US per month; and is newly built, by a Swede (the standard of building much higher than is usually found).  It is a non-attached duplex with a nice garden.  She plans to leave in April to travel north for a few months, perhaps visiting some tea plantations.

One wonders why people stay.  This is no resort town: no ocean side, no swimming pools, tennis courts, golf courses, or fine restaurants.  (Though! the newest hotel, just down the highway from me, is advertising a pool… not in yet.  Things are changing quickly in India, even here in the country.)  People stay for the special opportunities and an atmosphere:  There are yoga teachers, reike masters, somatics instructors, massage practitioners…. every kind of body work; There are ashrams, Satsang teachers, Gurus, Sadhus, Saints proliferating; There are various kinds of sacred singing and dance.  The sacred mountain, Arunachula, is the pull; the 6000 year old town the support.  Nobody organizes things (like in Poona).  People just come, and things happen.  Everyone is here for the same reason, and the small town lives to support it.  Very different from home, where ‘work and ‘leisure activities’ dominate.  You cannot get this atmosphere at home.  It is definitely not purity or perfection.  There are many “playing at the game”, as there is in the ‘professional world’ in the West.  But, it’s the game… the focus… that’s the difference.  I have been very happy here.

Must buy a tin trunk… soon.  I need to store my things that are staying: kitchenware; towels; flashlights; India only, clothing.  Does that mean that I come back next year?  

Love to all, p