Preface: I’ve split this journal into three sections for the convenience of the reader. If you’re not interested in part one, part two starts somewhere six miles down the page. If you’re not interested in part two either, you’re probably in the wrong place and might find something of interest
here instead. No photos up front this time, they’re embedded with their respective stories in the text below.
Comprehensive Table of Contents
1. A Modest Experiment in Cultural Examination
2. Stories from the Road
3. Protracted Ending and Coming Attractions
1. A Modest Experiment in Cultural ExaminationAmble off the street and into one of Delhi’s thousands of open-front
dhabas, and you’ll find yourself confronted with a culturally-telling decision. No, not hot or cold, although some Indians’ glee in downing ulcer-inducing curries as the sadistic July sun beats down from above is equally as impressive as the feats of any Chinese acrobat, Spanish bullfighter, or Brazilian spiny blowfish swallower. (Admittedly, performances of the latter are more renowned for their singular nature than for any spectacular quality, as few live to compete more than once.) No, not sanitary or contaminated, that choice was made implicitly when you crossed the threshold and entered the dhaba, but the general lack of hygiene is not as culturally indicative as it is economically derivative. The choice is vej (vegetarian) or non-vej.
I don’t mean to say the distinction is unique to India. Surely, the ability to distinguish between dishes that contain the flesh of formerly living beings and those that don’t is universal to all cultures; even the Inuit of Eastern Labrador and Newfoundland, whose particular conception of “salad” is composed of disparate elements less grown than they are born, would understand the logic behind grouping the carrot with the cheese wheel, and the seal tail with the reindeer thigh (sorry Rudolph, it’ll grow back). So what is it about having the option here in India that is so characteristic of the culture? It’s not the mere fact that the choice exists; it’s the particular diction of the distinction that I find so telling. “Why” in a moment, but first, a little history:
In days of yore, Hindus were a far more courteous people, with respect to their fellow living beings. They slaughtered not the animals of the earth, for food nor for tool; they consumed not the milk of the mother; they fried not the egg of the hen; they sliced not the breast of the turkey nor the side of beef, garnished not with lettuce and slices of mild cheddar cheese and raw onion, and wrought not delicious Delhi
Dagwood sandwiches between thick slabs of seven-grain bread. They didn’t do any of those things, and it’s too damn bad, because if they had, chances are that would be a part of the cuisine around here and right now I’d be wrapping my jaws around one instead of writing this. Nothing against writing- if I didn’t enjoy it I wouldn’t be behind the keyboard- but when your daily ration ranges from rice and curry one day, to curry and rice the next*, a thick deli sandwich comes in somewhere just south of ”ascension to heaven” on the gratification scale.
*Not an accurate representation of my diet. To complete, just add water.
During the first half of the second millennium, Muslim conquerors moved east from Persia (now Iran) and south from various -stans, to the geographic area now known as Pakistan and North India. At first, relations with the locals were a bit rocky (indigenous populations rarely take kindly to violent invasions), but with time, when it became clear that these Muslims weren’t going anywhere fast, the two cultures, previously oil and water, began to synergize. Soon after 1500, a Muslim ruler known as Babur (not the elephant, that’s
Babar) seized control of Delhi and Agra, and thus the Mughal (MOO-gull) Empire was born.
Without dipping a figurative bucket into the Well of Vapid Lexicon and hauling out gems like “history happened,” it would be difficult for me to provide the reader a greater over-simplification of world events than that which I offer herein. However, for our purposes, this will have to do. Babur’s descendents would rule until the early 1700s, and their influence on India is still felt today, some 300 years later.
Today, the tapestry of Indian culture is woven thick with threads both Hindu and Muslim, and the result is something not purely one or the other, but still altogether Indian. The mixture manifests itself in sometimes surprising ways. For example: India’s signature cultural attraction is not a Hindu temple, but the Taj Mahal, a monument to the lost love of Shah Jahan, a Muslim ruler. Despite this fact, it is held in high esteem by all Indians, both Muslim and Hindu.
The Taj marks the arrival of Muslim architecture to India (although it wasn’t the first instance here, it is the most prominent), but the Mughals didn’t stop there. They also brought their form of centralized government, their art, their trade routes, their language, and most importantly for our purposes, their cuisine. Suddenly, the North Indian sheep and chicken population, who by all accounts had led rather placid lives up to that point, passing most days munching on tall stalks of grass, contemplatively gazing into the distance, watching the horizon squeeze the last drops of juice from the orange setting sun, and composing metered romantic poetry, found themselves being systematically slaughtered for human nourishment, and altogether confused about the whole business.
In the beginning, animal emissaries were sent to normalize relations, but hope slowly died as each successive negotiator failed to return, and was subsequently spotted roasting leisurely over an open flame. These days you can find the descendents of these martyrs, spinning on a spit (as their ancestors once did) or deep in a
tandoori oven. We don’t call them emissaries though, we call them kabobs.
The crux of all this is really quite simple, and when I finally get to the other end of the etymological tightrope we’ve been walking (and have just fallen off), you’ll probably want punch yourself in uncomfortable places for climbing so steep a slope, only to be told by the
yogi on the mountain-peak that the secret of life is “Hawaiian pizza” or something lame* like that.
*Hawaiian pizza is not lame in and of itself; in fact it’s probably the one type of pizza that is closest to being the secret of life. However, you didn’t just climb the mountain for advice on your next Domino’s order, you did it for the axiom, adage, or allegory that’ll tear the blinds from your eyes, pull you out of the matrix, and make you see the world for what it really is. Unfortunately, if that’s what you’re expecting, you may have just climbed the wrong mountain.
So now that I’ve pre-emptively beaten it up, dragged it through the mud, and thrown it into a live volcano, let’s get to the point of all this rigmarole. Today, as I said, you have two basic types of food in Indian restaurants: vej and non-vej. The key to all this is in the semantics: that which is traditional, that which is Indian, that which is normal, merits the positive designation, it is ”vej.” Conversely, food that comes from a different tradition, food that comes from the ”other,” food that breaks with custom is negatively designated: it is “non-vej,” or not normal. Without even knowing the history detailed herein, we can deduce a significant fact about the history of Indian culture.
Were I a cultural investigator of any ardor, I’d take the next step in the logical progression and ask why it is that the erstwhile Hindus were vegetarians? However, that’s like asking an Orthodox Jew “Who wrote the Old Testament?” or a Catholic if the Eucharist is really the body of Christ: the answer is too steeped in the cultural lore for rational elucidation. Furthermore, our own line of pursuit leads us to other worlds than these.
I probably could have skipped most of this, and simply begun with that last paragraph about vej and non-vej and made the same point, but it is the journey, the endeavor, in which we gain most, isn’t it? Isn’t it?? Now wait, relax those fists, don’t punch your computer, yourself, or anyone near you (unless you’re standing next to Dick Cheney, then punch away and aim low), and don’t start plotting my timely death just yet. We’re not done. The question we’re now obligated to ask is: Why is this so culturally salient? Why should anyone care that traditional Indian food is given the positive moniker, while food that comes from a different tradition is given the label of the “other?”
It’s indicative of one of Indian culture’s defining characteristics: the almost seamless perpetuation of cultural values from one generation to the next. Indeed, things do change here, if we don’t accept that, there’s no rationalizing the torrid pace of development that is sweeping this country. Evidence of this is visible on every street corner, in every open field, and along every roadside, where change rearranges the face of modern India. Life here is rapidly transforming, from business (improved law enforcement is driving more openness in commerce, so instead of getting ripped off every time, you’ll only get ripped off most of the time), to infrastructure (today you tear your hair out stuck waiting in traffic jams, tomorrow you’ll tear someone else’s hair our fighting your way onto the metro train), and on and on. But while a cyclone of Westernization tears at the branches of the culture, core family values remain strong, an oak tree stoically defying the raging winds of change.
In most family homes, three successive generations mingle. As children become parents and parents become grandparents, values, traditions, and customs pass from one set to the next. What it means to be a Singh, or a Patel, or a Gupta, and on a broader scale what it means to be an Indian bridges the gap from one generation to the next, by way of the close daily interaction between the purveyors of the culture and their offsprings. The foods, the rituals, the ethos: all this unites those long gone with those still yet to come and everyone in between.
Not to say that traditions don’t span the gap elsewhere. It’s not as if parents in Paris are popping out babies who grow up to wear shallow conical hats and till the rice fields, or drape themselves in the Stars and Stripes while swallowing triple cheeseburgers, clobbering terrorists, and smacking home runs for justice (all simultaneously). No, French babies grow up to be French, just like Vietnamese babies grow up to be Vietnamese, and real Americans babies grow up to be real American heroes. Here in India, the same is true, but in my estimation in a different way and to a different extent.
Admittedly, the Indian family faces change and the challenge of evolving ideals like families anywhere, but with more egos enforcing “the way” than among some other cultures, the tendency is for family values and decisions to take precedence over individual prerogatives. This is the case in so many situations, but I’ve seen the conflict manifest itself most commonly when the case is labelled “marriage.”
There are two types of marriages here in India. So-called “love marriages” and “arranged marriages.” Love marriages are ostensibly your basic boy-meets-girl story, and are becoming more and more common among the middle- and upper-classes. An informal survey* among co-workers reveals that some 70% of Indian marriages are love marriages today. However, considering the sample demographic, middle- and upper-class Indians, chances are that my conclusions weren’t representative of India as a whole, especially with
300 million here living below the poverty line and leading lives nothing like those I first spoke with.
*Survey consisted of the following question: “Among people you know, what percentage of marriages are arranged and what percentage are love marriages?”
With this in mind, I asked a number of lower-caste Indians with whom I have daily contact (office helpers, drivers) the same question, and my curiosity paid off, revealing far more traditional tendencies among the poorer demographics. According to these people, 10% or less of the marriages among their friends and family are love marriages. One particularly noteworthy comment was “love marriages always end in divorce,” and knowing the implications of a divorce in this culture (a woman will find it almost impossible to be remarried, while the man may do so almost at his leisure) this is a serious assertion. The statement is indicative of how people here think of the pitfalls of following your heart, and allowing emotions to get in the way of properly raising children. In some senses I suppose I agree; if marriage is more a social agreement than an emotional relationship, the involved parties are more likely to work out any issues for the benefit of the children, whereas if feelings and egos are involved, lines of communication are easily distorted. Then again, as individuals who among us wouldn’t rather spend their time with someone with whom he/she shares an emotional connection? Once again, the view of marriage as a social agreement, one made between two families in the interest of the propagation of their family line, is another crucial trait distinguishing Indian culture from Western culture.
An arranged marriage is the progenies of a spark, deep in the nether regions of the idle mind of a mother, aunt, or cousin. Neurons flash, cobwebs crumble, an idea is born, and suddenly Guarav and Neha find themselves seated furtively across a living room from one another, anxiously avoiding the other’s gaze, as their parents engage in seemingly idle chat, ascertaining whether the other family is “suitable” (a subjective evaluation if there ever was one, and providing of an easy out should one family find issue with the other, or with the other’s marriage candidate). The fact that the two families have come this far implies that there are no caste conflicts, which commonly frustrate the aspirations of those who wish to be wed to a partner chosen of their own volition and also of a different caste. Chat ranges from family background, to employment, to general interests, to future intentions, and further matters of familial concern. Questions may be directed at the individuals themselves, or to the parents, who will invariably provide the “proper answer” should Guarav not know that he plans on being the CEO of a multinational corporation within five years, or Neha not realize that she can cook anything under the sun, with skill. Forgive me if I appear to be gender stereotyping, but given the fact that a propensity to abide by tradition is why a marriage would be an arranged one to begin with, it follows that traditional gender roles would prevail within the resulting household.
Assuming all goes well between the families, a prospect more dubious than one might expect, the potential marriage partners will discuss their reactions with their respective clans, weighing concerns and praise for the other. Should the bad outweigh the good, a polite excuse will be found, and they’ll start back at one.
However, should all parties acquiesce, the next question is that of dowry; with what will the bride’s family provide the groom’s family in exchange for the added burden of hosting their daughter? In Western culture, we might see this as a paradox of sorts, not only does the bride’s family lose their daughter, but also some large sum of money, which might be surrendered in cash form, as a new car, or even as an army of trained monkey slaves. Here in India, where they are well versed in marriages of this sort, practicality reigns. Since the groom’s family will now have another mouth to feed, it makes sense that they should receive recompense, at least while they adjust to the change and the girl is finding her place in the new home.
Now that we’ve covered the matchmaking/courting process, the ceremony deserves equal billing.
Thanks in large part to the recent movie "My Big Fat Greek Wedding," marriage ceremonies from the Hellenic end of the Mediterranean have taken center stage in the world wedding consciousness (a contentious position, if there ever was one). And deservedly so. This past summer I found myself knee-deep in a Greek wedding while walking home late one night on the isle of
Ios. The scene was something out of a three stooges movie: plates crashing on the floor and on heads;
Ouzo flowing down throats and on heads; dogs flying through the air and, of course, on heads. In a phrase, the party put
Bedlam to rest and went out for a night-keg or three. It was one part spontaneity, two parts tradition, and all parts madness.
But look a little further east, across the quagmire in the Fertile Crescent, past Persia and Pakistan, to a little country once called Hindustan, now India, and you’ll find a custom nine notches down on the debauchery scale, but as insanity goes, still
cranking it to eleven. (Why they don’t just make ten the highest, I don’t know.)
About now you’re probably saying to yourself, “can any party absent of a thick rain of booze, flying tableware and domestic animals really be considered wild, or for that matter, even a party?” Well, find yourself an Indian wedding and you might just reconsider the preconception that respectable parties necessitate high velocity airborne objects and a torrential downpour of alcohol.
A rainbow exploding: that’s an Indian wedding. In terms of the aesthetic, the marriage ground is a grassy park cordoned off from the outside world by way of hanging sheet walls, reaching fifteen feet into the night sky and sparking pink, orange, and white. Just about everything, including small children, is weighed heavy with heaps upon heaps of
orange, white, and yellow marigold wreaths, which are common to almost all Hindu spiritual ceremonies. The men come dressed in
kurtas, generally more conservatively colored, at least in comparison to the
sarees in which the women wrap themselves.
A pair of rabbit-minded Crayola Big Boxes couldn’t match Indian textile manufacturers for the production of spectrum-bending hues, and the result is an incredible variance in saree coloring, from
infrared to ultraviolet and everything in between.
Riding the tangent for a moment, conceptually, an infrared saree is going to cause some kind of uproar amongst the prudish Indian moral majority. Being wrapped in a garment of a color invisible to the human eye would be a shock, at the very least, to a culture that won’t even show a kiss on its movie screens. But seeing as how sarees here come in colors more exceptional
poison dart frogs,
Joseph’s coat, and the
San Francisco Gay Day parade to shame, chances are it could be managed without requiring an adjunct overcoat to obscure the body’s natural form.
The party starts in the early evening, and the guests who arrive first are the bride’s. They mingle, stuff themselves with food, and wait. A bit later on, after parading through the streets among a crowd of familial revellers, the groom dismounts his steed (no joke, he really rides a white horse to the wedding), and
confronts the bride’s parents at the entrance to the wedding ground, backed by his entire constituent. At this stage, it’s mom’s last chance to reject Sanjay the call-center jockey and force her daughter go for coffee one more time with Anooj the stock trader, but for all intensive purposes, it’s too late to go back, so after a few rites and rituals, in flows the other half of the party.
The starving masses who’ve been walking the streets solve for the shortest distance between themselves and the food, leaving young children and elders as mere obstacles to be trampled underfoot like pylons in traffic, as they make their way to the steaming casseroles. The bride and groom ascend to stage and
trade ritual flower wreaths, then proceed to be doted upon by both sets of parents,
pose for pictures, and act as if they actually remember the bride’s tenth cousin six times removed (Indian families are huge) long enough to snap a quick photo and shoo him from the stage as the next anonymous relative approaches. This is also the time, now that the two sides have mixed and no one knows more than half the crowd, when the randoms start strolling in... and then out again with a belly full of
dal makhani,
shahi paneer,
gobi aloo, a dozen
roti,
gulab jamun, more dal, mixed vegetables, ice cream, and some more dal (just for good measure).
As night advances and morning looms, the ceremony begins. Of course, by this time most of the freeloaders, acquaintances, and distant relatives have faded away into the darkness, followed not long after by the close relatives. This leaves behind the betrothed, their parents, the pundit (Hindu spiritual leader who facilitates the ritual), and a few people who wandered in after smelling the food, but missed dinner and so don’t even qualify as freeloaders.
The union itself is intricate and protracted. I’ve been to a pair of weddings myself, staying this late only once, but from what I gathered, there was a lot going on, all of it completely incomprehensible to the untrained eye. My eye, being primarily lazy but also untrained (the former an anatomical condition, the latter a lack of culture), is highly susceptible to the distracting influence of things that are brightly colored and shiny, found plenty by which to be diverted, to the point that I was, for all intensive purposes, incapacitated among the swirling hurricane of sparkling multicolored kryptonite.
What I missed while dazed and confused, was the bride
covering her eyes with large green leafs and being carried in circles around the groom seven times while seated on a platter, after which the two
placed flowered wreaths over each other’s heads. Then, the pair sat cross-legged, face-to-face, under
a flower-draped canopy as the pundit chanted prayers and incantations. After an hour or so of this, the ceremony ends, the street dogs find their way to the leftovers, and everyone goes home happy. Except the bums who showed up too late for the food. They’re still hungry.
After the honeymoon, the happy couple move in with the husband’s family, married life begins, children sprout, and on spins the wheel of time.
2. Stories from the Road
Previously I had promised details from a number of recent travel experiences. Unfortunately, time constraints and my stifling inability to put more than five words on the page per day over the past three months has led to something of a logjam of these sorts of stories, so in the interest of keeping this journal under ten thousand words, the section dedicated to each location will be short and sprinkled with photos.
Late last year, I made a return trip to India’s mountain paradise by the lake, Nainital, alongside my eight concurrent roommates. To give you an idea of how backlogged I am, this trip happened last
Diwali, or November 11th. Indians spend this holiday launching fireworks into the air and
lighting firecrackers under old people’s chairs. We spent the weekend admiring the nightly re-enactments of the
Siege of Leningrad from our hilltop hotel, and appreciating the fact that the heavy ordnances being launched into the
night sky, directly above densely populated pockets of the mountain village, were plenty far from us. Beyond that, we busied ourselves with gruelling hikes up into the
mountains, watching
monkeys &
sunsets, playing with
young children, and
shopping.
Photos from Nainital:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/afivenson/sets/72157603226008343/I also made a return to Agra, home of the Taj Mahal, this time for the second wedding I attended. I won’t rehash the wedding rituals, I’ve done injustice enough to that subject, and the
same goes for the Taj (which I visited again, knowingly walking into another 750 Rupee ambush). One topic I have yet to insult is
Fatehpur Sikri, an ancient city/palace about 25 miles from Agra, built in 1571 by Akbar the Great, some 75 years before the Taj Mahal, and used for all of 14 years before being completely deserted by its inhabitants. Theories as to why the populace hit the collective eject button vary widely, from lack of water supply to the whim of a fastidious ruler, to cheaper real estate in Agra, to loud neighbors.
My own theory is that the mass exodus was directly correlated to the creation and public operation of the Elephant Tower. What is the Elephant Tower, you ask? Why, nothing much. It’s just a decorative
little tower where criminals (whose guilt was decided arbitrarily by Akbar himself) were tied between two elephants, then torn limb from limb as the elephants were fearfully driven in opposite directions. I don’t care if you’ve never even dared to jaywalk, much less break the law, after seeing an execution that brutal, you’re headed in the opposite direction and you’re running until you hit ocean. Then you’re swimming. Maybe that’s what was racing through the heads of the people of Fatehpur Sikri when they packed up shop and left.
Today, the city is known as the Ghost City, thanks to the spirits which purportedly inhabit the grounds, especially the rear areas, which are now mostly ruins.
Our guide refused to take us there, feigning fear, but changed his tune when we made his payment contingent upon the fulfillment of his earlier promise to do so. That’s where we found the Elephant Tower, and “the truth” about the desertion of Fatehpur Sikri.
Photos from Fatehpur Sikri (and Nandita’s wedding):
http://www.flickr.com/photos/afivenson/sets/72157603804575511/Elsewhere- in a different place and time- I couldn’t get over the laundry list of similarities I saw between the state of
Goa, which I visited this New Years, and the Greek Isles, which I cursed with my presence last summer. The comparison started as a visual fixation, but during my ten day vacation there
alongside the Indian Ocean, the likenesses revealed themselves to be more salient than I had initially expected. Expansive beaches, a coastline freckled with quaint Bohemian villages, and relatively little penetration by chain stores and corporations means a distinctly indigenous flavor endures in both locales. Admittedly, the jungles of coastal India and the semi-arid climates of the Mediterranean coasts are topographically disparate environments, but in terms of atmosphere, I felt a similar vibe.
To give you an idea of how good life is in this place, the primary debate among Goans is not how to deal with the poverty, rash of development, and the erosion of family values like the rest of India, but whose beaches are better:
North or
South Goa? I was able to gain a modicum of understanding for Goan life thanks to the fact that a friend with whom I studied in Spain has family in Panjim, the state capital. This, compounded by the fact that she happened to be visiting at the same time meant that I had not only a free place to stay and three meals a day (Thanks Lisa!), but also a bit of immersion into Goan culture. A few abbreviated observations: Goa is different, streets are clean, cows roam only country roads, and a foreign face is no reason to stare slack-jawed, but instead a chance to offer a quick smile and a nod.
Why is Goa different? Well, for one, it wasn’t until 1961 (12 years after greater Indian independence from Britain was achieved), after 450 years under Portugal, that the Indian army rolled in and pitched the Portuguese back out into the ocean, wresting one of the last satellite states away from a once proud global empire (the last was Macau, near Hong Kong, returned to China diplomatically in 1999). But this doesn’t explain the differences between Goa and the rest of India. If mere status as a former Portuguese colony implies greater attention to cleanliness or Western values than status as a former British colony (meaning the rest of India) then try explaining a place like Singapore (former British colony, independence in 1965), which is so clean people don’t eat their dinner off plates, but off the very streets they drive on. No, Goa’s extraordinary nature is not a direct result of the injection of Portuguese culture, but it could be a derivative product of that influence.
Thanks to their time under the Portuguese, Goa’s religious composition is unique among Indian states. According to the
2001 Indian National Census, India on the whole is 80% Hindu, 13% Muslim, and 2% Christian, whereas
Goa itself is 66% Hindu and 26% Christian, and 7% Muslim. Christianity is far more widespread in this particular corner of India. The astute Western reader will immediately cry foul, labelling my implied connection between Goa’s endemic cleanliness and the relative pervasiveness of Christianity politically incorrect, prejudice, or worse. But before you measure the noose, afford me the opportunity to expound. Any Indian will tell you, it is the interior of one’s home or business whose appearance matters most. The outdoors is the place you throw your trash, and so there’s no need to keep it in proper order. Inasmuch, Goa is generally a clean place, but is pockmarked with remote stations owned by non-Goan Indians, which tend to be as Indian as the rest of India.
Photos from Goa:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/afivenson/sets/72157603801428900/Awkward tourist-local moments during our February visit to Udaipur, Rajasthan (RAH-jus-tan), but first a quick bit of context. The city sits cradled among a number of small lakes, upon which rest man-made structures that, due to their singular architectural, appear to float on the wake. One such structure,
The Lake Palace, a prominent construction on the lake (called the Jag Niwas), was featured in the 1983 James Bond film Octopussy thanks to its pure polished white marble composition and illusory hovering above the water level. These days, the Palace is an exclusive hotel, run by the Taj corporation.
While tooling around said lake
in a boat, our pilot made an inadvertent pass by the local ghats. Ghats are
tall sandstone steps that lead from a city down into its water supply, common in cities with access to the Ganges, but less so in Rajasthan, the state being mostly desert. Upon the lower steps of the ghats, Indians without facility otherwise do their daily washing, both of the laundry and of the body. You can imagine the tumult as we casually drifted by, staring gaudily and snapping photos as locals scrubbed their half-naked bodies, robed only in their skimpies (in India this means tight-fitting garments that still obscure most of the body, but being visible to an outsider while adorned as such is still a breach of acceptable social etiquette and cause for shock) and in the midst of their daily wash.
Coincidentally, it wasn’t just the communal ghats we coasted past, it was the women’s ghats, which meant that instead of merely breaking conduct, we thrashed it properly, then left it in the dust where someone else could pick up the pieces. While the ladies didn’t scream and run, they didn’t exactly smile and wave either. Imagine just as you hop into the shower, some tourist waltzes into the bathroom and starts snapping high-resolution photos while you’re swathed in nothing more than your birthday suit and the day’s dust and sweat. Probably not the way you’d want to address the nation, or even, for that matter, a small group of camera-toting tourists. However, forgiving a few caustic glares, most ignored our violation of conduct and carried on about their business. Had our boat spontaneously split in two, or been torpedoed and/or attacked by dingos, something tells me these women might have found their laundry a more prudent task than our timely rescue.
Worth a mention are also Udaipur’s
City Palace*, an ornate conglomeration of smaller elemental palaces overlooking the Jag Niwas (and the ghats), and the
Monsoon Palace, perched high above the
city.
*Photo taken by someone else, though I have no idea who
Photos from Udaipur:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/afivenson/sets/72157603960672892/Oh yes, and last but not least: the camel fair in Pushkar, north central Rajasthan, where what impressed me immediately were the cadres of women wading through crowded streets robed in lightning-struck neon sarees, even more brilliant than those I’d seen at weddings. The great irony was not the stark contrast between the women’s dress and the dusty, litter-strewn streets, but that while immersed in an environment so singularly stimulating, I managed to get my camera pinched from my pocket a mere ten minutes after stepping down from the train. That’s irony.
Regardless, textiles were hardly the only attraction at the camel fair. Surprisingly, there were also camels. Some 50,000 of them according to overblown estimates from the Rajasthan Tourism Authority, and almost all on the auction block. For a mere 20,000 Rupees (~$500), you too could take the scenic route back to the oasis, the envy of all the Maharajas in the neighborhood, atop your very own four-legged luxury desert transport aristocrat! I myself would have taken the plunge, but my two past camel-top experiences have impressed upon me the idea that piloting camels is just too painful in all the wrong places to be done more than once every few decades.
Highlighting the list of other noteworthy events at the fair was one spectacle from the midway. Tucked unobtrusively in between the Ferris wheel, tilt-a-whirl, and carousel sat an inconspicuous attraction, about forty feet tall and thirty feet in diameter. A peculiar half-barrel shaped construction, topped with a conical thatch roof, and painted with the flaking signs of advancing age. Curious enough to fork over cash, my friends and I each paid 10 Rupees and ascended the rickety scrap metal staircase to the viewing area, a bi-level grandstand crowning the barrel’s upper circumference. The view from above revealed a completely hollow structure, whose walls extended from the dirt floor to our perch above, but were angled at a more moderate grade near their base, maybe 45 degrees compared to 80 degrees up high. Below, a man waited astride his motorcycle.
Once the stands filled, our hero dramatically kick-started his bike, and began to ride slowly in circles along the shallow lower wall. What I saw next astonished, befuddled, and flabbergasted me. After building up a strong head of steam, he made a slight adjustment in direction and maneuvered himself right up onto the steep wall, where he proceeded to carry on as if driving on the wall was no big deal at all, and the type of thing he might do for a Sunday drive (and in fact, it was a Sunday). And if one motorcycle defying both gravity and death wasn’t enough, just after the initial shock passed, a second joined the first on the wall. The two bobbed and weaved, strutting like Spanish flamenco dancers, bravado on full blast, playing to the crowd, ensuring that if two guys riding motorcycles perpendicularly along steep walls wasn’t enough to capture your attention, then maybe two guys riding motorcycles perpendicularly along steep walls while shouting, throwing their hands in the air, and zigzagging left and right by steering with their knees would be. Naturally, the crowd loved it. I guess the harder you beg for a spectacular death, the more people are willing to watch and wait. It’s an ancient twist on
Social Darwinism coupled with a heavy shot of voyeurism.
At this stage, while watching two lunatics pilot their way around the circle like a pair of hamsters on the same wheel, I was sure we had reached the far edges of what was permissible by the laws of state, physics, and sanity. But as usual in India, I was proven wrong. A pair of small cars that had been waiting below, the size you might see bench pressed on those World’s Strongest Man competitions, which I had thought must surely contain stretchers and medical supplies for the two maniacs on the wall, hit the low ramp running, then merged into traffic on the wall. One more car and we would have been witness to a real live vertical traffic jam, which probably wouldn’t have been too exciting for anyone in the audience, as we see worse here in Delhi every day.
Other than that, the Pushkar Camel Fair was pretty uneventful.
3. Protracted Ending and Coming Attractions
I also recently played in another television commercial, this time for an anonymous investment company whose name includes some combination of the words
Max, New, York, and Life (though it shall remain nameless), in which I had to wear a suit, sit in front of a computer, stare into the camera authoritatively, and say “India is the place to invest right now, capital markets are booming. Change your underwear daily!” I may have added the second line to see if they were paying attention, I guess we’ll have to wait to see if it made the final cut, or if the killjoys in charge decided against the adlib addition of my invaluable piece of life advice. I am working on acquiring a copy of this commercial and also my previous one.
I’m going to call it a day for now. My apologies for the four month wait, although I’m sure some of you are just now finishing my previous offering. Then again, if you’re just now finishing my previous installment, chances are you won’t be reaching the end of this one for another few months. Either way, congrats, you’ve once again lost a few hours of life that you can never get back.
Last time in this same space I promised stories of, among other things, bribery. Never fear, those tales are coming in the next edition (I’m aiming for a June release, but whether that’s June 2008 or 2009 remains to be seen) alongside the highlights from
Holi and the
elephant festival in Jaipur, the
Blue City in Jodhpur, the Himalayan village of
Manali, and Amritsar, home of the
Golden Temple, Sikhism’s holiest temple.
As always, looking forward to your responses.
