Travel – Page 2 – KNOMO CHOICIUS

The Bhagwat is Over

I just realized I can put a color background to my text. This is the yellow color I was supposed to be wearing Day 1. I have since realized that I do have a shirt that is this color. It was even made in India. Very soft, nice cotton. But it was made for the US market, and it goes with jeans, and I didn’t bring it with me.

Day 7 was similar to the others, with a puja, or worship ceremony, in the morning. More of the out-of-town relatives had arrived, so the group was a little bigger. Every day after general prayers, there was much handling of fruit and flower, lighting of incense, sprinkling of holy water, little kids making faces when offered the holy cow pee to drink, and walking around to each of the four pillars holding up the canopy over the dais, handling more flowers, bringing the blessings to each person and back to the diety whose pillar it was. Then a short break, and everyone had to go outside of the tent to a special pole dedicated to Hanuman, an important Hindu diety who appears in the Ramayana, the modern portion (modern = a few thousand years old, not 5000 years old like the Vedas) of the Hindu scriptures. Hanuman is often shown with his chest opened and bleeding, similar to some Catholic depictions of Jesus. We handled fruit and flowers, while the sons of the deceased lit more incense, and broke some flat bread into small pieces for later consumption. We had to cross the rain control ditch, in bare feet, with multiple chunks of dirt and rocks, so that we were looking INTO the tent, while the junior priest, who did most of the chanting in the morning, fortunately, as his sense of musical tonality was better than the main priest’s, chanted the entire Hanuman Chalisa, a long story that is used as a prayer sacrifice. I definitely knew this drill by Day 7. Then when the Chalisa (this version goes on for almost 10 minutes) was over, we had to walk around the pole, again endangering my sensitive Americano feet, throwing the flowers onto the little altar at the base of the pole (no statue, as is shown in the link).

On Day 7 though, the Chalisa was followed by a procession to the house, to perform a fire sacrifice. The fire was HOT and the day was HOT and I felt sorry for the family members who were sitting right next to the fire. All sorts of things were tossed into the fire, but there was a big dish of what I presumed was pounded dry cow manure, mixed with chips of various woods and seeds. It produced quite a bit of smoke at times, and I was glad not to be sitting up close.

Well, tomorrow I am going shopping in Rishakesh for some gifts, and then I will be off to Delhi, to see the Jama Masjid, a huge, old, and famous mosque which I had hoped to see last year, and was prevented from visiting by the horrible Delhi traffic. Then I have one more day in Delhi for shopping, and back home. Following are a bunch of photos. I am glad to have attended this event.

Some years ago, I realized that the point of the animal sacrifice prescribed in the Hebrew Bible was to allow God to smell the wonderful smells of the roasting meat. On a higher spiritual plane, when we enjoy, God enjoys. Krishna explains to Arjuna that God is the one who enjoys all sensory experience. This smoke actually smelled nice from where I was sitting. I am not aware of a Christian practice that promotes human sensory pleasure for the sake of God’s enjoyment.

After the fire puja, and a break for the non-fasters to have lunch, and the fasters to have a snack, then back to the tent for the spiritual instruction. I couldn’t help put another photo of beautiful saris here.

This woman supposedly went into a trance, or was possessed by spirit entities multiple times. Personally, I was not convinced, but the people considered her state to be holy. Right afterward, she was playing with her cell phone.

The Swami posed for me. He was waiting for his scooter ride back home. I think this shows that Dharmendra really has sway. The Swami really looked like he was ready to get back to his home. The crazy dancing, loud music, kids running around, crush of people waiting to get the blessed food (“prasad”) seemed really more than he cared to endure for longer than necessary.

Dharmendra’s father, suffers from arthritis or something similar, and is often sitting in a chair, like others of the older people.

Dharmendra and his brother now have 7 day beards. The brother was looking forward to being able to eat ice cream again as of today. He gave up all dairy products for a year to mourn his mother. A male relative, a teacher, who told me that his son has been in Dallas for 4 years, is at right. The building under construction in the background was used as the kitchen to cook the meal for the “afterparty.”

The first group to be served appeared to number about 200. At least I counted 50 people, mostly kids, in the center row. You can see some adults sitting with their backs to the kids. Everyone sits on the floor (except old people) with plates on the ground, and people come through and serve from giant pots. There is so much chaos in India, but this is one situation where everyone is disciplined, polite, and patiently awaits the food. The pale yellow drink is buttermilk.

Serving lunch for 600, 200 or so at a time. Dharmendra’s brother is handing out 10 rupee notes, crisp from the bank in my case, in white envelopes. Every two days, I was instructed to give 100 rupees in such an envelope to each of the 6 assistant priests, and 200 rupees to the main priest. Good business for the stationery store!

Assistant priests. Second from the right did most of the chanting in the morning pujas, and at the fire ceremony. To his right, in white, another primary chanter. Sound tech at far left, in Batman shirt.

One of the crazy dresses made for little girls. This one has a piano keyboard at the bottom, and cats and rabbits doing various ballet steps labeled in French. The peace sign seems to be a thing that kids do in photos these days. When I get back home in a few days, everyone’s clothing is going to look REALLY BORING.

No Pix from Day 6

Today, I am staying at my hotel. I don’t spend a lot of time with people any more. The Day 4 festivities, with the Baby Krishna reenactment, were followed, on Day 5, by four other neighbor kids dressing up as later versions of a Krishna as a youthful man, his wife Radha, and two other characters. It was again very joyful, lots of music and dancing, and crushing of crowds. So these images are all from yesterday, or earlier.

Scene from life of Krishna. Everyone has to see up close and take photos of everything!

Dharmendra and his sister dancing during a break from the storytelling associated with the Gita.

The rituals are powerful though. On the 4th day, or was it the 5th, after the morning puja, I went to personally greet the image of my mother. Suddenly, it appeared that she was there. Her face seemed three dimensional. She seemed to be watching me, smiling. I have had this experience before in India. When at the Swami Narayan Temple (BAPS) in Delhi, in 2009, the eyes of the 4th Guru, the main founder of today’s movement, seemed to follow me as I passed his bust. Skillful sculpting? I don’t know. Later, all of the photos of the deceased who were on the “altar” of holy cow dung covered bricks seemed to be alive to me, with the possible exception of the one photo that was really old and faded and off to the side. But some of the other photos were almost as badly faded. Maybe this uncle has already reincarnated, and his spirit is not available for this event.

The deceased honorees of this Bhagwat Ceremony. My mom to the left of the soldier. Dharmendra’s mother above the soldier, his sister to the left of his mother.

The power of the rituals must somehow be associated with the overall liveliness of the Indian people. A lot of effort goes into clothing. It’s so amazing to see people dressed in so many ways, from traditional to western to some mix of odd styles that constantly surprises me. But here is another beautiful sari, just because.

Many Indians are becoming obese. But not this woman, or Dharmendra’s father’s sisters, shown below.

The traditional generation. Bananas were passed out as “prasad,” or blessed food. The bags of fruit and other items, including rice, lentils, etc. to be used in cooking later, are left in front of the dias, under the images of the deceased honorees, to get the blessings along with the bricks and spirits of the departed.

I was told that the “main priest” would be reading from the Gita, and offering commentary. My Hindi is limited and my Sanskrit even more so, but as I read along in my English translation, the word husband occurs NOT ONCE. In fact, there is only one mention of family members, and it’s an exhortation from Krishna to Arjuna NOT to be attached to his wife or son. Yet the word that kept coming to me in the long Hindi passages was PATI. Which is husband. Eventually I became very suspicious that the speech of the priest had ANYTHING to do with the highest spiritual message of the Gita. Which is that our true essence is not the part of us that is carrying out our daily activities. Our true essence can do nothing at all but witness the universe. There is, as I noted in yesterday’s post, an exhortation to duty, repeated and repeated, but never one word about a wife’s duty to her husband.

My French friend later confirmed that they are actually not reading from the Gita at all.

The whole thing is a circus of storytelling. Of course. Because the Gita basically says clearly and repeatedly that the people who carry out the old Vedic rituals have much lower merit than those who devotedly love Krishna as they go about their daily duties maintaining society. No. That would never do for the priests to read the real Gita to the simple, religious people. It could destroy their livelihoods.

The message of the Gita is to renounce caring whether you experience pleasure or pain, and simply abide as the one witnessing the experience. By ending one’s identification with the body and the sensory pleasures and pains it attracts, one eventually merges with the eternal, all powerful Source. It’s an inward path. Has nothing to do with hiring a band of pandits to do rituals.

But Shush. The Catholic priests for many years prevented believers from reading the Bible on their own, and I argue with a Protestant friend whenever I have the strength that he would behoove himself to make his own interpretations from his studies, instead of repeating the supposed experts’. While the Israelites, the people of THE BOOK, were encouraged to become literate and read their holy texts for themselves, the mystical traditions that teach how to merge with God have also been kept hidden from all but men over 40 who are deemed worthy.

And obviously, Hindus, Christians and Jews are not the only ones who have two religions under the same name. One that is for the people who in my Knomo Choicius novel would really like the Free Thought Church, where one is freed from the burden of having to think. And the other, the hidden tradition, is for those who have eyes to see, ears to hear, heart and feet to seek.

It is likely that my realization that the whole afternoon series of supposedly Gita inspired events is a facade for the opposite teachings was a factor in my need to stay in my hotel room today, and be an American on a spiritual path, taking a vacation from my “vacation”!

Coasting through Day 5

Yesterday was a big day at the Bhagwat. They had an extraneous celebration of Krishna’s birthday. Like Christmas in July. There was a big crowd of neighbors, along with a growing number of family members.

The neighbor’s baby was enlisted to be Baby Krishna. He never cried during the whole ceremony, including being ogled, then carried in a basket on Dharmendra’s head. Dharmendra was dressed up as Vasudeva, Krishna’s father. The story has similarities to that of Moses.

Dharmendra dressed up as Vasudeva, baby Krishna’s fatther, sitting with a very well behaved baby, for the throngs to pay their respects. Indian version of their nativity.

I am a terrible photographer and videographer. I did finally figure out how to edit the clip of Dharmendra carrying the baby in on his head, to get it to a size I can post. Who knows if the sound works. It is showing itself muted to me. The whole point of posting a video is to get the sound. GRRRR. I told Dharmendra I was impressed that his neighbor trusted him to carry the baby on his head. He said it was only because he first had seriously asked himself if he could do it.

Anyway, the afternoon was just crazy, with a large crowd and the kids started getting wild at 4 pm, while the ceremony had started at 3 pm, and didn’t finish until 7:30 pm. There was a somewhat sad looking group of three small children who had been the exception. They showed up on day 2, wearing somewhat dirty clothes. One of the other kids was not very nice to them. They have come back both days now, dressed more nicely, and looking clean. I smiled at them, and here is one of my rewards from yesterday.

Little girl from Rishakesh. She was very happy to see herself on my camera.

I did manage to get a better picture of the Swami. He looked really fed up with all the commotion. I bet he was wishing he had stayed in his cave, where he lived for 20 years, some years back.

This Swami is considered to be a true Saint.

It was a long day, and when it was all over, they had dinner. Dharmendra said 8, 8:30, so I decided to stay. Of course it was 9. The food was more varied than what I would have at the hotel. The servings are always for family style. So I can’t finish a serving of lentils (dahl), raita (yogurt with chopped veggies) and a chapati. I’d rather have rice to sop up the soupy dahl, but they don’t serve a little dish like the Chinese restaurants in the US do. So I have skipped the rice. Last night was kidney bean dahl, rice, cooked veggies, sliced carrots and cukes, and chapatis. Very tasty. I walked the 81 year old French woman back to where she is staying at a music ashram, on the way back to my hotel, rather than staying for the kirtan. That supposedly finally got started at 10:30 pm and finished at 12:15 am. They were a little later than I was for this morning’s prayers.

I have had time for relaxation. The whole week is essentially relaxation. Yesterday I worked with my Rosetta Stone Hindi a bit, and was able to use one of my new words right away! Last night I started reading Ursula LeGuin’s translation of the Tao. She passed away a little over a year ago, one my last nights in Rishakesh during my January 2018 trip.

During the afternoon Bhagavad Gita readings, I have been reading the Divine Life Society’s translation. I won’t say following along, as I have absolutely no idea what sections the main priest is actually reading. It seems like he is giving much more Hindi commentary than doing original Sanscrit reading. And for this whole sublime message of the Gita, if you are not sitting up front, where I can’t sit as the chairs are not allowed up front, for obvious reasons, you are going to hear not much, if anything. Despite that, last night as I read the Tao, I noted that both are essentially promoting the value of non-duality. Although the date of the war that is the nominal reason for the philosophical discourse that we know as “The Gita” is possibly as early as 5000 years ago, the enlightened message, that there is nothing but God, may be as new as only 2200 years old, or so. That would make it a bit newer than the Tao. On the other hand, nobody really knows. But the idea of non-duality definately seems to me to from the east. And the yin-yang symbol seems primordial to me. Of course, there are people who think it was the Egyptians who are the origin of all legitimate spirituality.

Anyway, when I first read the Gita, in 2001, I was disgusted by the emphasis of “doing one’s duty,” basically to maintain the social structure. As I am not a fan of the current social structure, although it is preferable to the one that held sway at the time of the Gita, I really struggled to appreciate major portions of this Divine text.

But yesterday, as I read, while listening to the goings on around me, I found myself coming to terms with the fact that I HAVE been trying my best to do MY WORK for the BENEFIT of HUMANITY in the best way I can manage. Probably, the original author(s) of the Gita would not recognize my efforts to teach critical thinking as one of the standard “jobs” allotted by the societal structure. Nor would they likely approve of my assigning this “duty” to myself. Although I do come from a family of many teachers, at least from the last four generations. But the teaching, as in my case, is nominally a sideline business of something else.

That’s ok. Every spiritual text has to originate in a certain time and place. It’s up to each of us to find the part of it that resonates with us. In my case, I now find hope in the message that it’s better to do something, our own work, badly if that’s all we can manage, and my situation often reveals my inadequacy, to myself if not to too many others, than to be slothful and set a bad example to others.

Sorry for the long sentence!

Bhagwat Days 2 and 3

No, that’s not the cremains of the deceased for whom this big shindig is happening. It’s a copy of the Bhagavad Gita, or Song of God, a small, but very important part of Hindu scripture. This should have been posted on Day 1!

Having gone to bed and slept through very strange dreams, I get up and turn on the water heater before the alarm reminds me. Are the dreams a result of having earlier drunk the holy cow urine? Who knows. After discovering that I need a tool that I don’t have to open my fancy organic laundry soap, I take my very nice shower, get dressed and climb the 30 degree, plus or minus 20 degree, hill to the tent, arriving 15 minutes after the end of the announced 8:00-8:30 window, to find nobody there but the sound technician. Although on day 3, I arrived at 9, and the puja was in full swing. I was belatedly offered one small drop of the blessed holy liquid, and then we walked around the dais several times for blessings. At 9:15, they took a tea break. I’m not having tea. I will plan to stick to water today.

Puja ceremony. Wives of sons of the deceased wearing fancy nose-rings and beautiful saris.

Anyway, back to Day 2, fifteen minutes after my late arrival, the priests started filing in. Maximum attendees was probably 12. So much for 40 every day. The puja started at 9:20. All was going ok until the rain started. The hired crew was set to the pick-axes and hoes, to create a moat and berm, presumably to keep the carpets dry. That wasn’t going to help the roof leaks that I saw on the way out. All told, this morning’s ceremony lasted a mere two hours. Dharmendra’s brother gave me a few mandarin orange segments, and I braved the rain to walk the 50 meters to the house. No, I didn’t run in my flip flops on the wet, intermittently muddy, rough street.

Digging the moat around the tent. Rain damage control. My purse and pillow on my chair.

Dharmendra asked if I wanted food. Definitely not a severe fast. So here I am in the kids’ bedroom, staying dry, waiting to go back downstairs to see what they are eating.

It was aloo pakora (potato fritters), fancy spiced couscous with ghee, coconut chutney, yogurt. Served on big plates. Fairly big portions. Day 3, I will go to my room during lunch. Part of the point of coming was to remind myself that many people go hungry every day, not by choice.

I always love looking at all the different designs and colors of Indian women’s outfits. Here I am after the morning puja on Day 5, with Dharmendra’s sisters, wife and sister-in-law, and an aunt.

The number of attendees increased for the 3-6:30 pm recitation of the Gita. My swami friend who did the blessing ceremony for my mother when she was in the hospital dying attended. He had to be reminded of who I was. Funny, we spent 3 days together and my appearance is usually memorable to people. Well, it was two years ago. He’s 72. He probably has more important things to concern himself with.

The Swami blessed the ceremony with his presence.

Beautiful Day 3 Saris of the brothers’ wives

“I ate the apple sari” design. Later, through a young translator, I told her I saw her sari as saying “I’m glad Eve ate the apple” and it turns out she does know the story of Adam and Eve.

Forget the Kool-Aid

Keep your eye on that little pot between the two plates…. From Left, junior priest, or “pandit,” my friend’s son, female relative, wife of my friend’s older brother, my friend’s older brother, who shaved his head and beard after not shaving for six months, in anticipation of this Bhagwat ceremony. The nose of my friend, Dharmendra (white scarf on his head) is poking out from behind the fancy red and tinsel shawl of his wife.

One of my current colleagues sometimes makes fun of himself by admitting he drank the Kool-Aid. Of course that was a sad time that most of us of a certain age remember, when the members of a religious cult drank cyanide laced Kool-Aid and died. Well, I am still alive to write this, so it wasn’t cyanide.

But it was a bit of shock to find out what the little pot contained, after my friend, Dharmendra, who has yet to approve a single sugar cane juice vendor, after 4 trips with him over 20 years, had waved his arm at me and the other two western women attending the Bhagwat (see Bhagwat- Day 1) – to indicate that yes, we should be offered spoons of the blessed holy liquid. It was quite bitter. I figured it was asofeotida (a special spice used in Indian cooking, whose name is not only casually linked with the work “fetid”). Well, ok. As I have previously noted, India is the land of surprises.

When the priest lifted the jug of golden liquid to fill the pot, the first French woman joked that it was whiskey. But no.

“C’etait l’urine de vache,” the second French woman informed me.

Really? I just drank cow pee?

Yes, it was a shock. For at least a minute. Then I remembered that my Zoroastrian friends had been discussing how the new excessively Americanized generation did not want to try this extremely healthful ritual. Mary Boyce, a reknowned, scholarly writer about the Zoroastrians, said that cow urine was the only disinfectant that the early nomadic herders had available.

Ok. Great. That really made me feel a wonderful relief.

I wonder if drinking the holy water was the cause of the very strange and vivid dreams I had last night. Not scary. Not seemingly prophetic. Just very strange and vivid. And one after another.

Well, if I am still alive to visit my Zoroastrian friends again in the future, I guess I can tell them I survived the ritual of their ancient cousins.

Hotel Shiv Vilas Impression

Having clumsily dropped the unwrapped plastic straw, he turned around, and stepped back to the welcome desk, to retrieve a replacement. All fairly unremarkable, until grimacing, he heartily kicked the first straw under the desk from which it had been removed.

Of modest height, the typically skinny north Indian 20 something, hair brushed to his left from a strongly offset part, cowlicked in the same manner my host’s son’s relationships were teasing him about last night, must consider himself too high in the social hierarchy to pick up what he dropped.

Another thought breaks into my consciousness. Maybe he was keeping his hands clean. But no, he returns a few minutes later, this time taking a paper napkin from the same piece of movable furniture, before turning in the same careless manner, but this time keeping a grasp on his target.

Sipping my ginger, lemon honey brew, I observe as he follows his supervisor back into the dining room, while they trade familiar chat.

Hotel Shiv Vilas in Rishakesh, entrance to restaurant, where I am now working, as the room I’m in has no desk!

Back in Rishikesh

Now, abhi, now I am in India. Feet having touched the ground yesterday at 2 am, I slept well, once installing earplugs to kill the tic tic tic tic of the fan in the room next door. I only figured out that this was the likely source of the noise after turning my own fan on this morning. India always surprises me with the new strange sounds. The fan ticks are preferable to 2017’s herd of mules’ hooves clacking on the cobblestones at 4:30 every morning. Construction crews had to be pre-stocked daily with mortar mix, in anticipation of the workers’ arrival.

So, refreshed after as good sleep as possible in a country where the science of acoustics is unheard of, I have my breakfast of four slices of whole wheat toast, butter, jelly, and tea, and head out to the Pundir General Store.

Dharmendra tells me that it is expanded and renovated since last year. There is a plentiful supply of my primary prey – Neem-Clove Toothpaste. Lots of nice auyervedic soaps, incense, etc. My purchase adds up to 3085 INR, but when I tell the shopkeeper that this is the best toothpaste in the world, he takes the 3000 rupees, and returns the 100 rupee note, telling me “Yes, we know. That’s why it’s the only kind we sell. One tube free!”

Heading back to my hotel, I am aware of the order in the chaos of the street. People, in a steady stream, weave in and out between parked vehicles, passing trucks, docile cows, chunks, large and small, of broken concrete, and fruit and vegetable carts. I merge into the crowd, not just physically, but my consciousness merges with theirs. A couple passes, he wearing a Latin lettered Sochi tee-shirt, she a Cyrillic version.

Rishikesh, the holy city of yogis, has regained its status as a bustling adventure tourist destination, four years after devastating floods and mudslides.

I am aware of the order in the chaos, and accept my place in it, no longer fearful of crossing the street, or walking in it, a fact of life in the land of scarce sidewalks.

Barefoot

Barefoot. I rarely do that anymore.
Too many thorns and sharp spines.
It takes too long for the little itchies to heal.
And drives me nuts at night.

Last year it was January
before the scabs finally stopped reforming.

No. And rarely even flip flops.
I remember when my mother stepped on a bee.
She had to soak her foot in a bucket for
what seemed like a long time to a seven year old.

But in India, on my first trip back in 2001,
I was taken to a mountain. Walking up
the rocky trail, I passed
scores of women walking down, huge bundles of
wood on their backs, their feet protected only
by cheap flip flops. Mostly blue and white rubber.
Not that they needed them, I remember thinking.
The soles of their feet protruded outward a bit.
Almost like hooves.
Years of hardening.
Their feet told the stories of their hardened lives.

Later, riding in my Ambassador tourist taxi,
we passed a woman, bundle of wood on her back,
sitting on one of the short tapered concrete
cylinders used to mark the outer edges
on the switchbacked mountain roads.
She was taller than average. Young. Well,
younger than I was at the time. Maybe
thirty. Stronger than average. Built strongly
with robust bones and muscles. Maybe our
eyes met.

She sat on the edge of the road. I will never
forget the look on her face. “Is this all there is?”
She, nameless woman of north India, probably
remains one of the biggest factors in my belief
that even if all of us don’t get reincarnated,
some of us do.

A Confident Monarch

Early August, and I and a friend decide to take off for the north. I’ve lived in Michigan for 33 years, and never been more than a mile or so past the north end of the Mackinac Bridge. This time, we got as far north as Whitefish Point. We rode in separate cars, and I had to wait while he finished a business meeting before we hit the road. I went to the poor, rocky “private” beach advertised by the cheapest motel we could find by the time we tried to reserve for the last minute trip. And there awaited a Monarch sipping nectar from a thistle. What a beautiful site. I took some photos with my phone, as I hadn’t bothered to bring my good camera while I killed time. Slowly, I moved closer, expecting Mona to fly away at any moment. But she did not.