More photos

The link in the previous post will now also take you to more pictures of Varanasi, as well as pictures of Ujjain and the countryside of Madhya Pradesh. Enjoy!

Photos

The following link should connect you with roughly the first half (the internet stopped working halfway through the upload) of my pictures from the trip. The pictures do not yet have captions, hopefully I will have time to label them soon, but just so you know what you are looking at the places pictured, in order, are:
Kausani and Kanda (in the northern province of Uttaranchal)
Delhi
Varanasi and the surrounding area (including a nearby village and Sarnath)
http://picasaweb.google.com/j.w.barrett9/Joe#

more pictures of Varanasi and our recent trip to Ujjain will be coming soon

Open Door Policy

During the two and half months we have spent in India so far, we have had the pleasure of traveling across large sections of the northern part of the country by what is probably the best and most convenient form of long distance transportation in India, the train. The train lines are very much the strength of modern Indian, as the extensive networks of tracks carry natural resources and people to every corner of the vast and rapidly developing country. Our recent journey across the states of Uttar and Madhya Pradesh, however, allowed me to see sections of India that, while close to the train, are well outside the developing world.
The journey began when we arrived at the station south of Varanasi a little before 4 am on Friday morning. Our arrival, however, turned out to be a tad premature as our train, as usual in India, was over an hour late. While waiting for the train we wrapped ourselves in our shawls or coats and tried to ignore the constant stares of our fellow travelers, a hallmark of the trip, and quietly fall back asleep on the dark platform. Eventually the train arrived and we quickly lifted our luggage aboard and crawled into our narrow berths eager to sleep for a few extra hours.
Upon waking, I slithered out of my bunk and tried to climb down to the floor without waking the people below me or smashing my head into the low ceiling (I failed at one of these and thus had a dull headache for part of the morning). Once I was safely on the floor and in my sandals I walked down the corridor and pushed my way past the men brushing their teeth with neem sticks to get in line for the bathroom. After using the bathroom (always an adventure on the violently rocking trains) I, copying the other early risers on the train, walked over to the open compartment door, and after firmly grabbing onto the railing, leaned out* into the wind whistling past the train.
Though it is impossible to recount everything I saw, simply because I saw way too much, I can sum up most of my observations by saying that from the speeding vehicle I was able to see the village lifestyles – how the vast majority of the Indian population still lives. From the train I watched old men and boys herding buffaloes, cows, and goats across landscapes barren except for low lying shrubs. I watched women hard at work with sickles harvesting crops in small, lush, green patches and then carrying on their heads the massive bundles of stalks back to their mud houses. But more importantly I saw where the modernization of India has failed: in piles of rusted metal, large abandoned concrete structures, and dry and broken irrigation ditches, while the villagers continue to live in a distant era connected to the modern world only by the occasional train.
While, I don’t know nearly enough to determine whether these villages are flourishing green utopias or struggling communities badly in need of government assistance (I would guess that it is a fine balance with many villages falling into both categories) the door of the train has exposed India to me in ways that living in a city could not. At the same time, however, numerous fleeting glances from a moving train are nothing more than an introduction. They are nothing to base theories or ideas upon and they don’t provide nearly enough information. In other words, while the view from the door was spectacular and eye-opening, next time I think that I will have to climb out of the door (when the train is safely stopped) instead of just standing in it.

* I would like to assure all parents reading this piece that when I say “leaning out of the train” I don’t mean that anything other than my head was outside of the train and that the rest of my body was firmly and safely planted inside the train at all times.

Dancing

The man nodded at me from across the roof and began to walk towards me. Figuring he was one of Shaina’s relatives, I nodded back, then said hello and asked him some questions in broken Hindi. He responded in a language that was unintelligible and after trying to make out his words for several minutes I realized that his lips were full of paan and that my attempts at conversation were pointless. Silence ensued, one of those bizarre Indian awkward silences, and we stood there listening to the music and staring at the view. Eventually he broke the silence with a garbled question, in which I could only make out one word “dancing.” I figured he wanted to teach me to dance, and since Indians are generally good dancers, I said “yes.” It was a terrible mistake. Before my eyes, the man who had been Shaina’s forty year old pot-bellied uncle with a mouthful of paan morphed into Michael Jackson and began to gyrate and thrust his way all over the roof. I was shocked, but not as shocked as I became when I realized that he didn’t want to teach me to dance; he wanted me, Shaina’s eighteen year old brother and all of his friends to dance with him.

One might wonder how I ended up in this ridiculous situation. Well, the main reason behind my predicament was the fact that it was Diwali. It’s very hard to describe what celebrating Diwali in India is like, but I think Shaina put it best when she said “Diwali is like if the 4th of July and Christmas were being celebrated on the same day in a city that just won the Super Bowl.” Yet even this description understates the dramatic nature of the celebrations and it might be even more accurate to add that the city, in which these celebrations are taking place, is also under siege.

Our group Diwali celebrations began very simply. We celebrated, compared to the rest of the city, in a refined and dignified manner, by lighting numerous small diyas (oil candles), eating sweets and setting off a couple of relatively basic fireworks on our roof. After our brief party was over, I began to head home for a totally dance-free evening, until Shaina called to inform me that her family was having a party on their roof and had purchased an obscene amount of fireworks. This Diwali, the city of Varanasi spent around 2 million rupees on fireworks, and Shaina’s family must have accounted for at least a quarter of that amount. Needless to say, I immediately turned my bike around and headed back across town, unaware of the fate that awaited me.

I was already enjoying many aspects of the party on the roof before I was confronted by the dancing men. For a while, I simply got to relax, observe the view of the unregulated and unplanned fireworks show going on all over the city, and even make my contribution to the show by launching some fireworks of my own. Yet, as you already know, this relative calm couldn’t last forever and eventually my evening was interrupted by Shaina’s whirling dervish of an uncle.

Though I tried to hold out for a while, I eventually I gave in and joined in the dancing circle of men. How long I was trapped I the frenzied circle of flailing limbs I can’t remember, but after what seemed like a very long time, the music stopped and Shaina’s brother and uncle began to argue about what song to play next (an old Bollywood classic or the newest hit) and I quietly made my escape.

Looking back on the event, I still feel slightly dazed. In the end, I’m happy that I danced. After all, I embraced Indian culture, gave Shaina and her home stay sister endless material to laugh about, and ended up having a lot of fun.

Chicken Dinner

Over the past two weeks, the five of us have all begun to slowly grow accustomed to the lifestyles and habits of the families whom with we are now living. While this transition has caused us all to make numerous small changes to our daily routines, one of the biggest challenges for me has been adjusting to my new diet. Though the food at my house is delicious, it is quite different from what I am used to at home as it lacks the variety and meat (Yes this is going to be another Yak about meat, but I can’t help it, it seems that every time people eat meat in India there is a good story behind it) to which I have become accustomed. Thus, when my home-stay brother, and fellow omnivore, Saurabh asked me if I was interested in making chicken one night, I readily agreed.
A few days later, on the day that had been deemed “Chicken Day,” Andrew, who was also craving the addition of meat to his diet, and I quickly biked home from Hindi eager to devour the meal. We entered my house and after introductions and chai, hurried to the kitchen expecting to see Saurabh cooking the chicken. Instead, we found a deserted kitchen completely devoid of chicken, or any other food for that matter. Surprised and worried, we asked Saurabh where the food was. In answer to our question he gestured upstairs and told us to put on our sandals.
After putting on our shoes, we followed him outside, around my building, and into an apartment in the back. Once inside we removed our shoes, said a quick “Namaste” to the man sitting on the bed inside the apartment and then followed Saurabh upstairs. Climbing the stairs we entered a small hallway, which contained, five of Saurabh’s friends, a propane tank, on which sat a makeshift stove, a pot filled with water and spices and a plate covered with raw chicken.
Andrew and I sat on a yoga mat on the floor and began to converse with the men around us, quickly learning that we were cooking and eating in such a bizarre location because no one in the building would allow meat to be cooked in their kitchen. As we waited for the food to cook, we enjoyed a snack of soda and Kurkure (Indian style Cheetos), continued the conversation learning, to our great excitement, that what we had joined in on was actually a regular event, and slowly observed how one makes a chicken curry without a kitchen. For a while, aside from the fact that everyone was speaking Hindi, it almost began to seem like we were back in America tailgating before some unknown sports event. Then the power went out and the fans and lights went off, quickly bringing me back to our Indian reality. The lack of electricity, however, was no big deal because it didn’t affect how we were cooking, so for a while we sat in the dark room talking and snacking by the flickering blue light of the gas fire.
Eventually, we left the dark hallway and moved out onto the roof, which was semi-illuminated by a combination of the moon and the light from the street below. When the food was finally done, we moved all of our supplies out onto the roof and began to distribute the food. Each person received a large helping of rice, a couple chapatis, a couple pieces of chicken and a hard-boiled egg, which had been tossed into the curry along with the meat. We then began to devour the meal, which was incredibly rich and delicious and left me feeling fuller than I had in weeks.
After the meal we thanked Saurabh profusely and offered our help in organizing next week’s meal. We then went downstairs and I headed off to my room, exhausted from the day, but quite happy with the new tradition that we had established.

The Ram Lila

During our stay in India we have visited many amazing places, however, we have almost always avoided the normal tourist plan, choosing instead to pursue more unusual activities and to visit less frequented sites. Yet on the morning of our third day in Varanasi, we did what every foreign visitor to the city does; woke before dawn, made our way down to the Ganga and boarded a small wooden rowboat.

After we were all in and seated, one of our boatmen slowly pushed us out of the mud and muck near the shore and out into the river, while the other began to slowly row downstream. As the boat gathered speed and we moved further and further from the shore we were presented with an absolutely stunning view. On one side of the boat we observed the sun, a deep orange ball, rising slowly above the trees and reflecting, in a blinding fashion, off the surface of the water. On the other side of the boat, however, we observed something even more beautiful in the hectic jumble of the ghats, or stairs down to the water, the beautiful palaces and temples along the river, and the colorful throngs of bathers performing puja or simply just swimming in the early morning light.
For a while I didn’t mind being a tourist, the view of the ghats in the morning really is too good to miss, but after to boat turned around and we began to make our way back the magic began to wear off. Peddlers paddled over to our boat and tried to sell us their wares, the sun got higher in the sky and it started to get hot, and I noticed the tens of other small boats around us all filled with tourists like us, pointing and taking pictures of the bathers. I began to feel Western and disappointed and I wished for a more personal way to connect with the Ganga, the mother of our new home.

Luckily, that very night we had our chance to escape from the tourist routine and do something entirely different. That night we decided to go to the Ram Lila, the annual thousand year old play that tells the story of the Hindu text The Ramayana. As it was getting dark, we returned to the Ganga and for the second time boarded a boat. This time, however, we were not going to be voyaging along the river for the view, instead we were simply going straight across the river to Ram Nagar, the old fort of the Kings of Banaras, from where we would head inland to the site of the festival. As we traveled, we listened to Krishna, one of our guest lecturers and the man who suggested the trip, as he told us the history of the festival and the story of The Ramayana. Eventually, we reached massive and ancient fort and disembarked, leaving behind the serenity of the river for the chaos of an autorickshaw ride.

After weaving our way through the massive crowds on the streets, we reached our destination, a small series of temples and a massive open field. We made our way across the field to the lanterns and wooden poles of the stage, laid out or newspaper on the dirt beneath us, bought peanuts and fans, it was incredibly hot, from vendors behind us and settled down in our spots. As we sat we learned that the show had not yet started because the King of Banaras (who retains the title, but no real power, except to organize this very festival, which he watched from afar on his elephant) had been doing puja and had only just arrived.

When the play began, we all quickly realized that it was quite unlike anything we had seen before. First, we learned that all of the roles are played by children, selected by a complicated and mysterious process, and that to be chosen as an actor is incredibly prestigious because the devout believe that during the show the gods actually enter the bodies of the children who are portraying them. Next, we learned that the children are not trained in acting, they are read the lines by other people on stage and then repeat them, and that audience participation, such as yelling cheers, correcting the actors (many people bring their own copies of The Ramayana with them), and running on stage to help the actors during important scenes, is an essential component of the festival. Eventually we simply accepted the crazy style of the play, relaxed and began to watch the actors performing the dramatic swordfights, as if they were training to be stuntman in Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon, and fire blowing that were all part of that nights section of the play, the fight between Lord Ram, the hero, and the demon Ravanna.

Though the play was quite fascinating, the part of the evening that I enjoyed the most was the fact that out of the thousands of people sitting in the field, we were the only foreigners. We were observing a thousand year old tradition that almost no other traveler in India ever sees and as if this wasn’t good enough, we were warmly greeted by the people around us, some of whom went out of their way to make friends. The man sitting behind me was particularly friendly and insisted on fanning me, thus saving me from sweating to death, throughout the whole performance. Though this made me feel awkward at first, eventually I turned around and we began to converse as he spoke broken English to me and I spoke broken Hindi back to him until we were both smiling and sharing my bag of peanuts.

When the performance finished, we slowly made our way back through the crowd to the chaotic streets and from there back to the banks of the Ganga. We boarded our boat and sailed out across the cool water into the warm, dark night, discussing what we had seen and simply enjoying the silence and calm that had been missing during our morning trip. It had been nice to be a tourist for a while, but it was now much better to be something else.