It was like some kind of strange bazaar of life and death. The scene on the ghats of the the most holy River Ganges where Hindus bring the bodies of their relatives to be cremated is like nothing I have ever seen.
The scene is straight out of a medieval painting of hell. The heat intensifies as you approach and the air is filled with the scent of thick woodsmoke, ash and the shouts of mourners, priests, wood carriers, body handlers and the watching public.
On two terraces, 10 or so funeral pyres are all burning at once, the flames rising several feet into the air and the smoke snaking between the narrow alleyways of Varanasi or drifting out over the river. This goes on 24 hours a day, as the Ganges is Hinduism's most sacred river and the faithful bring bodies from far and wide to perform the last rites on its banks.
Suddenly there is a shout and, as I watch, a body on a bamboo stretcher is carried down the steps to the ghat by four men. It is shrouded in a white cloth, but its face is still visible. The rest of the body is covered with glittering orange and gold clothes, edged with what looks like tinsel, gold foil streamers and garlands of fresh orange marigolds.
It is an old lady, her mouth is slightly open and her skin a very odd shade of dull pale yellow that does not look at all Indian. Her face is very thin with sunken eyes and protruding cheekbones. It's not a horrible or gruesome sight, it's not even a peaceful one, as there is so much noise and smell going on. As they carry her clumsily over a raised bit of ground the stretcher lurches and her body jolts on top. My heart leaps, as I think she might fall off, but the stretcher-bearers steady themselves and carry on.
As they walk, the men shout a mantra, 'Rama's name is true,' as they carry the body down to the shore of the Ganges. Wading into the filthy water, as it flexes under a covering of old plastic bags, discarded garlands and all manner of human and animal waste, they immerse the body in the holy river to cleanse it one final time. The garlands and coverings are then removed and the simple shrouded corpse is placed on a pile of wood about three feet high. More wood is placed on top of the body, by the untouchable Dom caste workers, except for at the head and feet. Male family members gather round the body and throw on handfuls of fragrant sandalwood powder and herbs and place ghee and honey on the seven chakra points of the body. A Brahmin priest joins the mourners with a flame taken from Shiva's sacred fire, alight constantly at the top of the ghat, and lights the pyre.
As the flames catch the wood, the whole pyre is quickly transformed into a leaping orange blaze. Suddenly the cotton shroud is gone and I can see the head and feet of the burning corpse, clearly visible through the smoke. As I watch the skin darken and blister and the hair frazzle away I feel numb. I thought I would feel disgusted, appalled, sick, upset, distraught. But I feel none of these things. I'm appalled that I'm not appalled.
I struggle to think why this gruesome sight doesn't seem to affect me, then I realise I'm not the only one. As I watch the skin burn and the fat beneath it begin to bubble and drop down through the wood, I realise this is how Indians - or Hindus in this case - deal with death: in public, just as they do with life. They wash their dishes, clothes and even themselves on full display. They sleep on the streets, in stations, on benches and they cook and eat in the open. Why should death be any different? It's not that they are in any way disrespectful; far from it. There is as much ritual in their funerals as in any other of life's events. It's just that in India life and death happen where you can see.
In the West, unless a service is carried out in respectful quiet, we feel uneasy that it is not right or fitting. Here it is the reverse. Noisy, chaotic and open - schockingly so, to our Western sensibilities.
As the body continues to burn, the feet remain sticking out in the air, not touched by the flames. After about half an hour or so, once the thigh bones have burned through, one of the untouchables responsible for tending the pyres, casually flips the feet back into the centre of the blaze with a long bamboo pole, effectively folding the body in two. He shakes up the half-burned legs and pokes back in any parts of the body that have fallen out. By this point there's not much resemblance to the human form, merely a dark, heavy lump of half-burned flesh and bone.
This relay of funerals repeats over and over again, as body after body is brought down the steps for cremation, while families, workers, 'guides' and tourists alike look on. As another body comes past, I watch as a cow standing among the crowds swipes a mouthful of marigold garland hanging over the side of the stretcher. No-one shooes it away. Further down, right between two of the pyres, a goat picks its way through, searching for a morsel of whatever it can find. I hold my breath as it edges ever nearer to a pyre. To my relief, the heat is too much for it and it turns away. Again no-one moves to stop it. Dogs too, wander around and lie near the flames for warmth. Another cow noses its way into a discarded plastic bag to lick out the remains of some ceremonial honey. And everywhere men - no women - sit or stand in the swelterinig heat of the fires, just looking on.
I gradually become aware that over all of this, I've been hearing a constant droning from the sound of a boat's engine turning over next to the ghat. It is a pump-boat, with high pressure hose, cleaning the ghat next door to the cremation ghat. For those not involved in the last rites, life goes on and the presence of death just beside them is just a part of that.
As Hindus believe in re-incarnation, the burning of the body (how typical that in the West we have a separate, distancing word for it - cremation) is just a way to pay the last respects and release the soul into the next life. For them it marks merely the end of the body, but not of life.
Saturday, 12 November 2011
Thursday, 10 November 2011
Picture imperfect
Travelling alone has some minor drawbacks that I hadn't initally appreciated. One of these is photos. Although I am not one for taking snaps of myself in front of every temple, tomb and town I see, the odd picture of me on my travels is something I would like to have.
This poses a problem. When you are alone this job falls always to a stranger. This person is an obliging soul going out of his/her way to humour your vanity. As such you cannot ask too much of them. They point, shoot, return camera and continue on their way. The resulting photo is rarely up to much. You may be amputated at the knee, or have a wonky horizon; you may be (and if you are me, nearly always are) mid-blink, someone's passing head may lurk in the corner, or the background may be pin-sharp while your face is a blur.
Now, while I don't claim to be a photographer of any skill, I flatter myself that I can compose quite a good shot or see a photo opportunity that others may overlook. How I would dearly love to ask my friendly stranger to just step back a bit to get more background in, or find an angle so I'm not squinting into the sun, or even plead that he leave my knees intact in the composition. However, the etiquette of the single traveller dictates that one must be grateful for that precious yet forlornly ill-composed shot, however terrible it is.
I have hit on a ploy of trying to ask someone with a professional-looking camera themselves to do the duty, so they will surely understand in an instant the image I am trying to create. But when I proffer my cheap little point-and-shoot, they smile sadly at the evidence of my obviously woeful standards and do not attempt to give me that perfect photo.
So, unless someone on my travels find me an interesting subject in myself, I must be content to see myself from the knees up with a forced grin of gratitude.
This poses a problem. When you are alone this job falls always to a stranger. This person is an obliging soul going out of his/her way to humour your vanity. As such you cannot ask too much of them. They point, shoot, return camera and continue on their way. The resulting photo is rarely up to much. You may be amputated at the knee, or have a wonky horizon; you may be (and if you are me, nearly always are) mid-blink, someone's passing head may lurk in the corner, or the background may be pin-sharp while your face is a blur.
Now, while I don't claim to be a photographer of any skill, I flatter myself that I can compose quite a good shot or see a photo opportunity that others may overlook. How I would dearly love to ask my friendly stranger to just step back a bit to get more background in, or find an angle so I'm not squinting into the sun, or even plead that he leave my knees intact in the composition. However, the etiquette of the single traveller dictates that one must be grateful for that precious yet forlornly ill-composed shot, however terrible it is.
I have hit on a ploy of trying to ask someone with a professional-looking camera themselves to do the duty, so they will surely understand in an instant the image I am trying to create. But when I proffer my cheap little point-and-shoot, they smile sadly at the evidence of my obviously woeful standards and do not attempt to give me that perfect photo.
So, unless someone on my travels find me an interesting subject in myself, I must be content to see myself from the knees up with a forced grin of gratitude.
Shut that gate!
Crowds of 10,000+ who have travelled for more than an hour just to watch a gate being closed was not something I expected to see in India - or anywhere. But this gate is not any old gate, it is the India-Pakistan border gate and each night it closes in a display of the most camp military pomp possible. If it weren't a display with years of history attached, it would be ridiculous in the extreme - actually even with this, it is still ridiculous.
Soldiers on both the Indian and Pakistani sides are dressed in full ceremonial military costume, including mighty turbans with elaborate fan decorationss attached to the top. At the sound of a shout from the guardroom, a squad of Indian soldiers marched out of the gates and began to perform a military drill of macho posturing and ludicrously high goose-stepping, designed to out-do the Pakistani side. Head held stifflly erect, with flinty glare, they started on a routine of flicky-kneed marches, a buttock-clenching half-walk, half-run and innumerable salutes and presentations of arms.
On the other side, the Pakistanis retaliated with yet more ridiculous marches and salutes, eyes bulging in mock fury and chests puffed up like roosters.
Many people, including Sanjeev Bhaskar and my travel idol, Michael Palin, have compared the scene to the Ministry of Silly Walks. And who am I to disagree? It is the Ministry of Silly Walks! At one point one of the soldiers executed such a high kick that his leg went way above his head and he threatened to knock his own block off!
This nightly event is now so popular with both Indians and Pakistanis, that grandstands have beenbuilt to hold the 10,000 people who travel to the border every evening at sunset just to see it. The stands were jam-packed when we got there and the atmosphere was full of expectation. All around me the air was pulsing to the sound of a mass of people roaring and flag-waving with Hindustani pride, all egged on by an unlikely warm-up man is a shiny white tracksuit. It felt more like a football match.
In the ladies' stand, far from being a quieter affair, the Indian women were noisier than the men. Punching their fists into the air, they shouted as one, 'Long live Hindustan!'
For a heavily guarded military border, the organisation was what can only be described as cheerful bedlam and chaos. As the action started people surged forward and started to stand up fro a better view, only to be put firmly back in place with a piercing whistle blast and some rather heavy-handed shoves from the soldiers in charge of security.
As the display continued, the crowd bellowed ever louder, furiously rattling their little plastic flags, until the moment when the flags on both sides were lowered simultaneously, the commanders shook hands so briefly you barely saw it and the gates were literally slammed shut. But instead of staying closed, the Pakistani gate, bounced open again slightly, to the Indian crowd's great delight. They howled in derision at this cock-up of precision drilling from their sworn enemy and taunting whistles and cheers filled the grandstand.
Then suddenly, it was all over as soon as it had begun. The crowds quickly dispersed probably thinking, as I did, that it was the most impressive closing of a gate they had ever seen.
Soldiers on both the Indian and Pakistani sides are dressed in full ceremonial military costume, including mighty turbans with elaborate fan decorationss attached to the top. At the sound of a shout from the guardroom, a squad of Indian soldiers marched out of the gates and began to perform a military drill of macho posturing and ludicrously high goose-stepping, designed to out-do the Pakistani side. Head held stifflly erect, with flinty glare, they started on a routine of flicky-kneed marches, a buttock-clenching half-walk, half-run and innumerable salutes and presentations of arms.
On the other side, the Pakistanis retaliated with yet more ridiculous marches and salutes, eyes bulging in mock fury and chests puffed up like roosters.
Many people, including Sanjeev Bhaskar and my travel idol, Michael Palin, have compared the scene to the Ministry of Silly Walks. And who am I to disagree? It is the Ministry of Silly Walks! At one point one of the soldiers executed such a high kick that his leg went way above his head and he threatened to knock his own block off!
This nightly event is now so popular with both Indians and Pakistanis, that grandstands have beenbuilt to hold the 10,000 people who travel to the border every evening at sunset just to see it. The stands were jam-packed when we got there and the atmosphere was full of expectation. All around me the air was pulsing to the sound of a mass of people roaring and flag-waving with Hindustani pride, all egged on by an unlikely warm-up man is a shiny white tracksuit. It felt more like a football match.
In the ladies' stand, far from being a quieter affair, the Indian women were noisier than the men. Punching their fists into the air, they shouted as one, 'Long live Hindustan!'
For a heavily guarded military border, the organisation was what can only be described as cheerful bedlam and chaos. As the action started people surged forward and started to stand up fro a better view, only to be put firmly back in place with a piercing whistle blast and some rather heavy-handed shoves from the soldiers in charge of security.
As the display continued, the crowd bellowed ever louder, furiously rattling their little plastic flags, until the moment when the flags on both sides were lowered simultaneously, the commanders shook hands so briefly you barely saw it and the gates were literally slammed shut. But instead of staying closed, the Pakistani gate, bounced open again slightly, to the Indian crowd's great delight. They howled in derision at this cock-up of precision drilling from their sworn enemy and taunting whistles and cheers filled the grandstand.
Then suddenly, it was all over as soon as it had begun. The crowds quickly dispersed probably thinking, as I did, that it was the most impressive closing of a gate they had ever seen.
Monday, 7 November 2011
No words will do
Wherever Indians are present there is a constant stream of talk but sometimes they are people of few - or rather no words. I have noticed that they conduct many simple transactions in complete silence with no awkwardness on either side.
Going into Delhi from the airport, we passed a toll booth. My driver wound down the window, gave a coin to the man in the booth, was given a ticket in return and drove off, all without a word exchanged.
Now, to my British ears and manners, this appears cold as best and rude at worst. But, on reflection, it is simply an economy of words, nothing more. Here's why: the driver knew the price of the toll, the attendant knew that, as a taxi driver, he knew the price, the driver knew he would get a a ticket and the ticket guy knew he was expecting one. So why go to the trouble of saying, 'Ten rupees, please', to be responded to with an unnecessary , 'There you go', 'Thank you, safe journey'? In Britain such a transaction without this exchange is considered awkward and rude. In India it is not.
I tested it out myself. At the Red Fort ticket office in Delhi I raised one finger to indicate one ticket, while simultaneously pushing across the correct amount of money. The ticket officer tore off one ticket and I left, having said nothing and elated at such brazen rudeness from us both. No-one noticed or cared.
Going into Delhi from the airport, we passed a toll booth. My driver wound down the window, gave a coin to the man in the booth, was given a ticket in return and drove off, all without a word exchanged.
Now, to my British ears and manners, this appears cold as best and rude at worst. But, on reflection, it is simply an economy of words, nothing more. Here's why: the driver knew the price of the toll, the attendant knew that, as a taxi driver, he knew the price, the driver knew he would get a a ticket and the ticket guy knew he was expecting one. So why go to the trouble of saying, 'Ten rupees, please', to be responded to with an unnecessary , 'There you go', 'Thank you, safe journey'? In Britain such a transaction without this exchange is considered awkward and rude. In India it is not.
I tested it out myself. At the Red Fort ticket office in Delhi I raised one finger to indicate one ticket, while simultaneously pushing across the correct amount of money. The ticket officer tore off one ticket and I left, having said nothing and elated at such brazen rudeness from us both. No-one noticed or cared.
Striking gold
Having left Delhi in low spirits I arrived in Amritsar full of hope and cheerful again after my experience with Businessman on the train. I had high hopes for the city. How could I not, with its place as Sikhism's holiest site?
When I arrived the station was as noisy, smelly and chaotic as the one I'd left in Delhi. This didn't matter - all Indian stations are like this. All human life passes through. I saw families of three generations travelling together; groups of children off to school; farmers with sacks of dried chillies, spilling from splits in the stitching; and chai-wallahs hawking their hot sweet tea with hoarse cries of 'Garam chai, garam chai' - 'hot tea, hot tea'. Thin-as-wire porters carried enormous packages on their heads with nothing more than a wad of cloth for protection.
All their noise and baggage and mess is dragged through the station. Bags clout you from all sides with no apology from their owners, and queuing is an alien concept. He who has the sharpest elbows and loudest voice is served first.
My hotel was a tempting oasis of cool and calm, but an excitement in the air drew me outside and towards the Golden Temple. After removing my shoes, covering my head and bathing my feet, I entered the main gateway. The sight I saw gave me a feeling that is hard to describe, except with the prosaic term 'goosebumps'. Straight ahead of me in a serene, square pool of water stood the most beautiful building I have ever seen. Its shining golden walls and domes were covered in intricate floral designs and it glowed like fire in the late afternoon light. The white marble floors and colonnades that surrounded it were as clean and pure as snow. But what made it so beautiful was not just the setting but the people who filled it. Everywhere around the Pool of Nectar, Sikhs of all ages bent to touch the sacred floor with their forehead or stood in silent prayer, hands pressed together before them. Some men stripped to their shorts and bathed in the holy waters. Over it all, the sound of a priest inside the temple singing the holy prayers, accompanied by musicians, echoed all round the complex.
The sense of holiness and respectful devotion was totally moving and a lump came to my throat. As I sat on the steps leading to the pool, a young father came past, holding his tiny newborn baby - only a few weeks old. First he put the baby down gently on the floor and touched his own forehead to the cool white stone, before picking up his child again and touching his tiny forehead to the stone too. His gesture was so tender, loving and reverential for both his baby and the holy place that tears came to my eyes.
Crying behind my sunglasses, I watched the faithful perform their devotions. Indians are noisy people and, although there was a constant murmur of chatter, as they prayed each one was possessed by, not just silence, but a stillness that was remarkable.
Many had bought the little triangular headscarves on sale outside the temple to cover their heads. These are of the most intense saffron colour I have ever seen. As people moved, the scarves glowed like so many orange flames.
I stayed there for hours watching, immersed. Men, women and children of all ages were there. Groups of lads in their teens and twenties un-selfconsciously knelt and prayed or bathed in the pool, while elegant men with long flowing beards in majestic turbans of all colours quietly sang along to the holy chants, with no hint of embarrassment. Each was in their own little world of devotion, yet all were united in their faith.
When I arrived the station was as noisy, smelly and chaotic as the one I'd left in Delhi. This didn't matter - all Indian stations are like this. All human life passes through. I saw families of three generations travelling together; groups of children off to school; farmers with sacks of dried chillies, spilling from splits in the stitching; and chai-wallahs hawking their hot sweet tea with hoarse cries of 'Garam chai, garam chai' - 'hot tea, hot tea'. Thin-as-wire porters carried enormous packages on their heads with nothing more than a wad of cloth for protection.
All their noise and baggage and mess is dragged through the station. Bags clout you from all sides with no apology from their owners, and queuing is an alien concept. He who has the sharpest elbows and loudest voice is served first.
My hotel was a tempting oasis of cool and calm, but an excitement in the air drew me outside and towards the Golden Temple. After removing my shoes, covering my head and bathing my feet, I entered the main gateway. The sight I saw gave me a feeling that is hard to describe, except with the prosaic term 'goosebumps'. Straight ahead of me in a serene, square pool of water stood the most beautiful building I have ever seen. Its shining golden walls and domes were covered in intricate floral designs and it glowed like fire in the late afternoon light. The white marble floors and colonnades that surrounded it were as clean and pure as snow. But what made it so beautiful was not just the setting but the people who filled it. Everywhere around the Pool of Nectar, Sikhs of all ages bent to touch the sacred floor with their forehead or stood in silent prayer, hands pressed together before them. Some men stripped to their shorts and bathed in the holy waters. Over it all, the sound of a priest inside the temple singing the holy prayers, accompanied by musicians, echoed all round the complex.
The sense of holiness and respectful devotion was totally moving and a lump came to my throat. As I sat on the steps leading to the pool, a young father came past, holding his tiny newborn baby - only a few weeks old. First he put the baby down gently on the floor and touched his own forehead to the cool white stone, before picking up his child again and touching his tiny forehead to the stone too. His gesture was so tender, loving and reverential for both his baby and the holy place that tears came to my eyes.
Crying behind my sunglasses, I watched the faithful perform their devotions. Indians are noisy people and, although there was a constant murmur of chatter, as they prayed each one was possessed by, not just silence, but a stillness that was remarkable.
Many had bought the little triangular headscarves on sale outside the temple to cover their heads. These are of the most intense saffron colour I have ever seen. As people moved, the scarves glowed like so many orange flames.
I stayed there for hours watching, immersed. Men, women and children of all ages were there. Groups of lads in their teens and twenties un-selfconsciously knelt and prayed or bathed in the pool, while elegant men with long flowing beards in majestic turbans of all colours quietly sang along to the holy chants, with no hint of embarrassment. Each was in their own little world of devotion, yet all were united in their faith.
Friday, 4 November 2011
A journey
'In India a single white female fool and her money are soon parted. After the hardest hard sell I have ever experienced, I found myself in receipt of eight train tickets, five hotel vouchers and my trip around India planned for the next three weeks. All at a cost of... well, lets say I paid more than I should have to a travel agent I should not have gone to.
So, as dawn broke over the mild din of early morning Delhi, I headed to the train station to start my journey to Amritsar in a state of gloom and self-pity, musing on my colossal stupidity for a third-timer in India.
While most people would be delighted to discover they'd been booked into a 1st class, air-conditioned carriage, I was not. 'Real India' does not travel 1st class. The colour, sights, sounds and most definitely smells of Indian life travel in cheaper classes, whereas 1st class is for the elite, wealthy 'normal' people. This was not what I'd come to experience.
Resigned to a six-hour journey of cosseted boredom, sitting with men in suits, I took my seat. A few minutes later, my fears were confirmed as a young Indian and his Australian colleague came into my carriage. It seemed that one was seated next to me and one on the other side of the aisle. With the selfishness of the lone traveller, desperate for company, I stayed put, hoping the Australian would be seated next to me, so we could at least compare Indian experiences. Then - I don't know why - I heard myself asking if they were travelling together. When they said they were, I asked, 'Would you like to sit together?' They thanked me and I moved across the aisle.
I could have cried! I was now sitting next to a businessman par excellence. An older Indian gentleman, with a balding head, neat glasses and a crisp blue shirt and black trousers. He had a severe look of concentration on his face. His headphones were plugged into his iPad and he was reading the financial newspapers on it. My heart sank. There was going to be no fascinating interaction or even conversation here.
I tried to read my book but couldn't concentrate. As tears of silent frustration and loneliness prickled my eyes, the tea trolley came through. As the hostess laid out the cups, Businessman unplugged himself from his iPad. For a few moments I toyed with my sugar and teaspoon before, in sheer desperation, I plucked up the courage to start up a conversation.
'Are you travelling to Amritsar?' I asked mindlessly.
'No, to Ludhiana,' he replied. Nothing more.
'Is it a business trip?' I blundered on.
'Yes.' Nothing more.
This conversation was going nowhere. After prising out of him that he was an engineer, selling machinery to the textile industry, I almost ran dry. I knew of nothing to ask on that subject. Then it came to me: family! People always open up about family. So I asked him about his. Amazingly this also produced nothing. Yes, had a family; yes, they were in Delhi. Nothing more.
Out of politeness he asked me a few questions. Where was I travelling in India? How long was I staying etc? Then he asked me a very odd question: 'What are you looking for?'
I was a little surprised and, not wanting to come across the hippie, dippy traveller come to discover herself I replied airily, 'Oh, you know, see lots of places, meet people, see the country.'
He was silent.
This was true. A friend of mine who also loves India, always says it's such a spiritual place, but for me, sadly it hasn't really felt that way. The best way I can describe it is to say I feel at home and comfortable here. So if that is a spirituality of some kind, then that is my spirituality.
'Amritsar is a holy place,' he said finally, 'and everyone of every religion - Christian, Hindu or Sikh - is ultimately looking for one thing: to become one with God.'
'Of course,' I replied politely, surprised at this sudden turn in the conversation. 'What religion are you?'
'Hindu. And Hindus believe that every action you take has a result in this life or the next and that to be content with your life and let God do the rest, is what will bring you to be one with Him.'
Then, with no further prompting from me, he began to explain the Hindu philosophy. As he did, an extraordinary thing happened. His stern face lit up, like that of a mother talking about her newborn child. His tense look relaxed and became soft, his eyes shone and his face and hands became more and more animated. I had found his passion! I believe everyone has something they are passionate about and Hinduism was his thing.
He talked for about two hours, while I listened, fascinated and bound by what he said, as much by the passion and faith of his personality, as with the words themselves. I wish I could remember everything he said on that journey, but there was so much. Yet the simplicity of the Hindu tenets all made sense. The main points that stuck with me were:
1. Every one of your actions has a result, so you must think and act to achieve a good result and leave the rest to God.
2. To become closer to God and be one with him you should learn to control three things: Anger, pride and desire.
3. To be one with God is very difficult, so you will need a teacher - a guru. This guru is an enlightened person who is at one with God and can teach you how to get closer to Him. He/she isn't necessarily a holy person, just one at peace with themselves.
As he talked, I mentally applied these principles to myself, my life and my actions and found that they resonated with me very strongly and that I could learn a lot from them.
I had changed seats on the train, even though I didn't want to, because I thought it was the right thing to do. This simple action had resulted in me sitting next to and talking to an amazing man, whose deep love of God and his religion was hidden behind the worldly face of a simple businessman on a train. The feared loneliness of my journey had been transformed by the choice I had made and this chance conversation that had taught me so much.
I had also succumbed to pride, moping about having been duped into buying an expensive tour. My pride told me I was an expert on India and when I fell for this overpriced train journey, it had taken a beating. I was angry at myself for falling for it and I was definitely angry with the travel agents who'd sold it to me, as I made very clear at the time! Businessman nodded wisely when I told him my thoughts.
'But you have done this action now, and you must accept the result and leave the resat to God, because you can't change it.' How right he was!
To me, the third point was obvious. I knew nothing of Hinduism and Businessman knew it, believed it and loved it so much. His unshakable belief gave him the urge to communicate his knowledge to me - a complete stranger - with no hint of awkwardness or embarrassment. His passion and faith made me listen to something I needed to hear. And it had taught me a valuable lesson about how to look at and live my daily life in a different way. He was my guru.
He laughed when I told him this. 'I am not a guru, but if I can pass on to you a spiritual knowledge, this will stay with you in this life and the ones to come. This is my guru.'
With this, he took out his iPad again and showed me the screen. On it was an image of a middle-aged man in a saffron turban. His Hindu guru. He was like a proud father showing me a photo of one of his children.
'He was a great man,' he said. His face shone with so much love!
The locket with a curl of hair from a long-lost love, the crumpled wedding photo in a wallet - these are no longer the place we keep those dear to us. Now, we capture their presence in an image on a mobile, laptop or iPad. The electronic connection through which we communicate with that person is still overlaid with the emotion that can only be achieved with a photo. Businessman's loved one was his guru.
'I'll tell you a story of my own,' he said. 'Once, I was on the waiting list for a ticket on a particular train (this happens a lot in India) and I came to the station early to wait and see if my name was on the ticket list. I sat down next to a man sleeping on a bench. It was a cold morning, so I took off my jacket and covered the man with it. When he woke up he was surprised to find himself covered in someone else's jacket. I told him the jacket was mine and he gave it back.
'I thought he was just another passenger waiting also, but he turned out to be the train manager of the very train I was there to catch. Because of what I had done, he instantly put me on the ticket list.'
He said this with no hint of pride, just acceptance that this had been a situation he'd left in God's hands. I was thrilled! Both of our experiences proved that doing a good action will lead to a good result sooner or later.
When his stop arrived, as he left, Businessman turned and said, 'Enjoy the rest of your journey and God bless you.' He already had. As he left the train I realised I didn't even know his name.
So, as dawn broke over the mild din of early morning Delhi, I headed to the train station to start my journey to Amritsar in a state of gloom and self-pity, musing on my colossal stupidity for a third-timer in India.
While most people would be delighted to discover they'd been booked into a 1st class, air-conditioned carriage, I was not. 'Real India' does not travel 1st class. The colour, sights, sounds and most definitely smells of Indian life travel in cheaper classes, whereas 1st class is for the elite, wealthy 'normal' people. This was not what I'd come to experience.
Resigned to a six-hour journey of cosseted boredom, sitting with men in suits, I took my seat. A few minutes later, my fears were confirmed as a young Indian and his Australian colleague came into my carriage. It seemed that one was seated next to me and one on the other side of the aisle. With the selfishness of the lone traveller, desperate for company, I stayed put, hoping the Australian would be seated next to me, so we could at least compare Indian experiences. Then - I don't know why - I heard myself asking if they were travelling together. When they said they were, I asked, 'Would you like to sit together?' They thanked me and I moved across the aisle.
I could have cried! I was now sitting next to a businessman par excellence. An older Indian gentleman, with a balding head, neat glasses and a crisp blue shirt and black trousers. He had a severe look of concentration on his face. His headphones were plugged into his iPad and he was reading the financial newspapers on it. My heart sank. There was going to be no fascinating interaction or even conversation here.
I tried to read my book but couldn't concentrate. As tears of silent frustration and loneliness prickled my eyes, the tea trolley came through. As the hostess laid out the cups, Businessman unplugged himself from his iPad. For a few moments I toyed with my sugar and teaspoon before, in sheer desperation, I plucked up the courage to start up a conversation.
'Are you travelling to Amritsar?' I asked mindlessly.
'No, to Ludhiana,' he replied. Nothing more.
'Is it a business trip?' I blundered on.
'Yes.' Nothing more.
This conversation was going nowhere. After prising out of him that he was an engineer, selling machinery to the textile industry, I almost ran dry. I knew of nothing to ask on that subject. Then it came to me: family! People always open up about family. So I asked him about his. Amazingly this also produced nothing. Yes, had a family; yes, they were in Delhi. Nothing more.
Out of politeness he asked me a few questions. Where was I travelling in India? How long was I staying etc? Then he asked me a very odd question: 'What are you looking for?'
I was a little surprised and, not wanting to come across the hippie, dippy traveller come to discover herself I replied airily, 'Oh, you know, see lots of places, meet people, see the country.'
He was silent.
This was true. A friend of mine who also loves India, always says it's such a spiritual place, but for me, sadly it hasn't really felt that way. The best way I can describe it is to say I feel at home and comfortable here. So if that is a spirituality of some kind, then that is my spirituality.
'Amritsar is a holy place,' he said finally, 'and everyone of every religion - Christian, Hindu or Sikh - is ultimately looking for one thing: to become one with God.'
'Of course,' I replied politely, surprised at this sudden turn in the conversation. 'What religion are you?'
'Hindu. And Hindus believe that every action you take has a result in this life or the next and that to be content with your life and let God do the rest, is what will bring you to be one with Him.'
Then, with no further prompting from me, he began to explain the Hindu philosophy. As he did, an extraordinary thing happened. His stern face lit up, like that of a mother talking about her newborn child. His tense look relaxed and became soft, his eyes shone and his face and hands became more and more animated. I had found his passion! I believe everyone has something they are passionate about and Hinduism was his thing.
He talked for about two hours, while I listened, fascinated and bound by what he said, as much by the passion and faith of his personality, as with the words themselves. I wish I could remember everything he said on that journey, but there was so much. Yet the simplicity of the Hindu tenets all made sense. The main points that stuck with me were:
1. Every one of your actions has a result, so you must think and act to achieve a good result and leave the rest to God.
2. To become closer to God and be one with him you should learn to control three things: Anger, pride and desire.
3. To be one with God is very difficult, so you will need a teacher - a guru. This guru is an enlightened person who is at one with God and can teach you how to get closer to Him. He/she isn't necessarily a holy person, just one at peace with themselves.
As he talked, I mentally applied these principles to myself, my life and my actions and found that they resonated with me very strongly and that I could learn a lot from them.
I had changed seats on the train, even though I didn't want to, because I thought it was the right thing to do. This simple action had resulted in me sitting next to and talking to an amazing man, whose deep love of God and his religion was hidden behind the worldly face of a simple businessman on a train. The feared loneliness of my journey had been transformed by the choice I had made and this chance conversation that had taught me so much.
I had also succumbed to pride, moping about having been duped into buying an expensive tour. My pride told me I was an expert on India and when I fell for this overpriced train journey, it had taken a beating. I was angry at myself for falling for it and I was definitely angry with the travel agents who'd sold it to me, as I made very clear at the time! Businessman nodded wisely when I told him my thoughts.
'But you have done this action now, and you must accept the result and leave the resat to God, because you can't change it.' How right he was!
To me, the third point was obvious. I knew nothing of Hinduism and Businessman knew it, believed it and loved it so much. His unshakable belief gave him the urge to communicate his knowledge to me - a complete stranger - with no hint of awkwardness or embarrassment. His passion and faith made me listen to something I needed to hear. And it had taught me a valuable lesson about how to look at and live my daily life in a different way. He was my guru.
He laughed when I told him this. 'I am not a guru, but if I can pass on to you a spiritual knowledge, this will stay with you in this life and the ones to come. This is my guru.'
With this, he took out his iPad again and showed me the screen. On it was an image of a middle-aged man in a saffron turban. His Hindu guru. He was like a proud father showing me a photo of one of his children.
'He was a great man,' he said. His face shone with so much love!
The locket with a curl of hair from a long-lost love, the crumpled wedding photo in a wallet - these are no longer the place we keep those dear to us. Now, we capture their presence in an image on a mobile, laptop or iPad. The electronic connection through which we communicate with that person is still overlaid with the emotion that can only be achieved with a photo. Businessman's loved one was his guru.
'I'll tell you a story of my own,' he said. 'Once, I was on the waiting list for a ticket on a particular train (this happens a lot in India) and I came to the station early to wait and see if my name was on the ticket list. I sat down next to a man sleeping on a bench. It was a cold morning, so I took off my jacket and covered the man with it. When he woke up he was surprised to find himself covered in someone else's jacket. I told him the jacket was mine and he gave it back.
'I thought he was just another passenger waiting also, but he turned out to be the train manager of the very train I was there to catch. Because of what I had done, he instantly put me on the ticket list.'
He said this with no hint of pride, just acceptance that this had been a situation he'd left in God's hands. I was thrilled! Both of our experiences proved that doing a good action will lead to a good result sooner or later.
When his stop arrived, as he left, Businessman turned and said, 'Enjoy the rest of your journey and God bless you.' He already had. As he left the train I realised I didn't even know his name.
Thursday, 3 November 2011
It started well
The God of Airports must have been in the mood to reward my patience after I'd waited three long hours in Doha with no Qatari money to spend and one miserable restaurant serving horrid and expensive 'international cuisine'.
I waited patiently for the first clump of passengers to be squeezed through the boarding gate into a neat sausage of humanity to board the bus to the stand. When it was finally my turn, the stewardess told me my seat number had been changed. 'Ok,' I replied, not really caring anymore. 'It's now 7J.'
'Ok,' I replied again, 'that's fine.'
My budget traveller anntenae didn't twitch once.
I boarded the plane at the back, mildly irritated to realise I'd have to walk the length of it to find my seat, seven rows from the front. As I plodded through the cabin, I realised the economy class rows were running out and I'd not yet reached row seven.
'Please don't tell me there's a cock-up,' I thought.
But no, there was no cock-up. As I passed the final row of economy - row 6 - it finally dawned on me. I'd been upgraded to Business Class! Unasked-for and definitely unpaid-for! Not daring to laugh or smile in case they realised it was all a mistake, I found my seat and sat down in traveller heaven; a business class seat for the price of an economy ticket. This never happens to me, but it just had! I was amazed, stunned, grateful.
Now I had to set about the business of looking like I was meant to be there all along. I sat down nonchalantly next to a smart-looking Indian lady and nodded a brief 'hello'. After putting my bag in the hold, miles from my seat, with enough legroom for a giraffe, I surveyed my surroundings.
As I looked idly round at my new territory, she promptly said kindly, 'If you're looking for the remote control it's in the armrest.' It was clear I wasn't fooling her. No, with my baggy trousers and scruffy hoodie, she knew I was not one of hers.
Was I the only one to be upgraded, or were there other interlopers present? A surreptitious sweep of the cabin was inconclusive. My seat neighbour definitely looked the part, with several jewelled rings on each hand and expensive-looking clothes.
Elsewhere a young Indian man dressed in a checked shirt and jeans and wearing glasses looked like either a rich student or - judging by the important-looking papers he was scanning - a young entrepreneur easily capable of being at home here.
I couldn't be sure whether the distinguished-looking Sikh gentleman with flowing white beard and aristocratic turban had been in economy class on the first leg or not, so I claimed him as one of my own kind anyway. And felt happier for it.
The rest of the trip passed all too quickly. The seat became a bed; I slept. The food was not plastic; I ate. The nifty reading light on adjustable stick worked; I read. I only wish the flight had been longer than the three hours it took to reach Delhi.
I waited patiently for the first clump of passengers to be squeezed through the boarding gate into a neat sausage of humanity to board the bus to the stand. When it was finally my turn, the stewardess told me my seat number had been changed. 'Ok,' I replied, not really caring anymore. 'It's now 7J.'
'Ok,' I replied again, 'that's fine.'
My budget traveller anntenae didn't twitch once.
I boarded the plane at the back, mildly irritated to realise I'd have to walk the length of it to find my seat, seven rows from the front. As I plodded through the cabin, I realised the economy class rows were running out and I'd not yet reached row seven.
'Please don't tell me there's a cock-up,' I thought.
But no, there was no cock-up. As I passed the final row of economy - row 6 - it finally dawned on me. I'd been upgraded to Business Class! Unasked-for and definitely unpaid-for! Not daring to laugh or smile in case they realised it was all a mistake, I found my seat and sat down in traveller heaven; a business class seat for the price of an economy ticket. This never happens to me, but it just had! I was amazed, stunned, grateful.
Now I had to set about the business of looking like I was meant to be there all along. I sat down nonchalantly next to a smart-looking Indian lady and nodded a brief 'hello'. After putting my bag in the hold, miles from my seat, with enough legroom for a giraffe, I surveyed my surroundings.
As I looked idly round at my new territory, she promptly said kindly, 'If you're looking for the remote control it's in the armrest.' It was clear I wasn't fooling her. No, with my baggy trousers and scruffy hoodie, she knew I was not one of hers.
Was I the only one to be upgraded, or were there other interlopers present? A surreptitious sweep of the cabin was inconclusive. My seat neighbour definitely looked the part, with several jewelled rings on each hand and expensive-looking clothes.
Elsewhere a young Indian man dressed in a checked shirt and jeans and wearing glasses looked like either a rich student or - judging by the important-looking papers he was scanning - a young entrepreneur easily capable of being at home here.
I couldn't be sure whether the distinguished-looking Sikh gentleman with flowing white beard and aristocratic turban had been in economy class on the first leg or not, so I claimed him as one of my own kind anyway. And felt happier for it.
The rest of the trip passed all too quickly. The seat became a bed; I slept. The food was not plastic; I ate. The nifty reading light on adjustable stick worked; I read. I only wish the flight had been longer than the three hours it took to reach Delhi.
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