seduction of the whistle

Occaisonally the train stops. Another wave of passengrs cramming to get int he door. Few disembark. It just keeps getting more crowded. The horn blows, distant so many cars ahead and the bright lights of the station fades. Leaving us rumbling in the dark.
The disabled remain disabled. so many. Coming from a priviledged land where medical care is widely available. Some spend their lives sweeping floors of trains, sweeping the debris and sandy dust from around our feet as passengers push past. Some are business men, some simply stick out their hand.

I could travel like this for days, watching my thoughts take form. Shapping them into coherent maps, letting htem go in the rush of the wind.
We must be nearing Delhi (Delli) now. The passing lights show shops and wallahs, buildings are one story taller. I am saddened that the hours somehow pass so quickly though I never close my eyes. I am seduced by the ambiguity of the day.

On the tracks women bundle children. men stand over the edge of the tracks to relieve themselves, others lit from the glow of their mobile phones. Picking their way across the tracks passengers begin exiting the musky cabin. The whistle hurries people aboard. We have not yet arrived, yet I am perfectly content ot be here. Surely I will know when we get there, I believe it is the end of the line. I will wait for a coolie to find me as the rush subsides and he will somehow lift up my bundles of sarees and effortless walk the stairs across the bridge and down to the main road while I scurry behind.

We are nearing the shanties by the tracks, small fires by the doors. Silhoutes of laundry hanging from rooftops, faceless bodies behind thread bare sheets of cloth and rusted tin. ladders leading to one room homes. Aluminum cups and plates stacked next to the bare mattress. Flourescent light spills into the night. I have arrived in Delhi.
I need to bring groups here. Stay up to date with my new tours at http://www,stressescapetours.com

the tracks

We are only 5 1/2 hours into our journey from Ajmer to Delhi. The bench we sit on was built for three across, there are five on my bench, 6 across from me. Feet dangle above. The air is stale, smelling of bodies. Warm even with the fans whirling above. Nights cool air reaches in from the tracks. I've closed the metal slates to keep the wind from my nursed cold.

I have gotten used to the stares. Those around m, if they speal any english, have exhausted the little they know and have moved on to naps or convresations. Occasionally I seem them glaning my way. Eyes not quick enough to avoid my sudden glance. You can tell when someone is talking about you,even in another language. And you can feel the stares. The man above me, when not dozing seems to find my gazing out the window or writing or reading very curious, just as I am entranced by the everyday inIndia-a woman selling laudry soap onthe side of a road, anolder felow reading the newspaper....I can watch for long minutes.

Today, in the 21st century most men, especially inthe towns and cities dress in Western wear. Button downs, slacks socks and a pair of loafers or sandals. So sometimes I am caught off gaurd when they find me so fascinating to watch. But of course I am odd, women's schooling is minimal, their place in the home.

I cover myself with a wonderful wool blanket woven somewhere deep in the Thar desert near Jaipur with tribal symbols decorating it's face. It keeps me warm while alos keeping me hidden. A woman traveling alone is always a curiosity. But I have found respect throught this journey. I had prepared for the worst, but wearing the salawr suit and my short hair and darkskin leave me less than desireable.

I try shifting positions when a leg or foot falls asleep. Balancing overstuffed bags, tucked into the few inches besides the window allows the luxury of leaning. Or at least it gives the illusion of a little more space, always welcome onlongtrips by plane, bus or train.

I am so grateful to have tasted India so long ago. Newcomers are still mesmerized, days are easier, not quite so chaotic, it is a little cleaner. And with this come changes, plastic cups ratehr than the clay cups that would disinegrate under foot. No longre do wallahs climb aboard at one station plying the teaming seats of weary passengers with ground nuts or poua. The goverment has installed their own vendors serving airplane style container of veg burgers onwhite bread. Grateful for the ease, saddened by the loss.

Dark. everyone is so dark. With deep penetrating eyes. Once in a bit you catch the eye of someone with the eyes of a cat. it takes your breath away, man, woman, child against the high cheek bonesand milk chocolate flesh. I become the voyer, hoping for another glance my way.

My body has begun to cramp. Seven hours have passesd. I've stood only once. I am parched. It would be so lovely if at the end of this journey there would be shops offering massage like in Thailand. All I will be lucky to get is a hassel free rickshaw to my hotel, hopefully they changed the sheets and there is a sink.

masala

I had told Martin I would not need to return toIndia after this visit. I had tired of the throngs of people and noisy horns, but actually I was simply tired.

I easily loose myself in the maze of everyday. it is what brings me back time and time again. Yes, it is true India gets under your skin and when it begins itching. When it does you itch incessantly until you are raw and crying out for relief. Once the wound heals, you are once again lulled into its rythmic heart beat and you fall in love all over again.

As with any first love, it remains buried in the folds of your soul. To be able to linger in it's embrace again and again is the greatest gift of all.

For days, no,it has been years, I have hadnothing to write. Nothing to saybar a complaint or whine. India reached inside and with it's complex breath allowed me to remember.

India is like a great masala. Black pepper, cumin, tumeric, ginger, salt, corriander, common spice drawer ingredients, taste almost offensive to the tongue. To take a bit of pepper on your tongue would be wretched. But fry them together with a dollop ghee, add fresh peas and califlower, let it simmer a moment. The aroma is tantilizing. Spoon this over a plate of rice or scoop it up witha piece of chappati and WOW-the dish is amazing. Of course a good plate of rice is alwasy yummy, especially with a big pat of butter. But this, as is India, thrown together with just the right quantities and the world expands before your very eyes.

Singing

I heard a voice which I barely recognized. It was the song of my heart and my deepest soul.and as the days drifted past along the quiet edges of the lake, the song became louder.Once I accepted that my foolish notion of volunteering was indeed foolish, I placed myself into a jewellery making class to justify my time here. The class offered me a view to an inner circle of Pushkar, in fact maybe it was then that I began to emerge from my cocoon. I learned patience as tens of minutes would pass while harry, my teacher, chatted with whoever decided to drop by to say hello. I learned how to make rings and set stones, how to mold a piece of silver intoa work of art. This time forced me to be present. A melted pendant blantantly reminding me to stay present for the present.I came to India arrogant once again The white woman from America thinking she could make a diffrence. India doesn't need me. Oh, it desperately needs a better socialsystem, health care, clean water, jobs. But the systems have been put in place and have been working for centuries. Regardless of how I or anyone in the West may percieve this 'way' is entirely none of India's concern. I came wanting to find my heart. To hear it sing again. And as I always tell my companions whojoin me on my trips to Thailand, you may come for one thing, but the place, the place will know what you need and offer iot to you if you are willing to recieve.

And so the cycle continues to spin.

Unlike most movies

Unlike movies, most books I read I need not read again. Once the last page has been turned, I eagerly skip to the nearest bookstore for a quick exchange, a new fix of anothers adventure. I have found several though that warrent the dogearred pages and the cumbersome wioeght of excess luggage. I savor each page. Rereading sentences twice or thrice to taste the salt on my lips or feel the weakening agony of loss. Thi s seems enough to satiate a hunger that has quickened since my arrival.










Yes I am hungry again Hungry to taste all the world has to offer.

I laugh outloud to anything written by Iriving. Kingslover reaches into the very corners of my heart tearing it open. I discovered Shreve on this journey as well as Amy Tan. Anita's (Shreve) titles alone tantilize me: The Weight of Water and Strange Fits of Passion. Tan managed to put into verse moments of my life as she dictated a story by a woman who had meant to lead a tour through China and Burma, but dies just a few days before departure.

For so long I felt I no longer held a voice. My heart had dried. My soul felt crumbled, thrown into a corner and forgotten. I came to India to retrieve what was lost. Lost somewhere between then and there.

I took my time. Sometimes impatient, as you know I am, with the reluctance my mind had to the new journey. Expectations continued to fall around me. I became invisible behind my veil. Faded into my own skin. Days would pass in shadow, always on the periphery. Refusing or denying myself access to step in. For days I followed the lives of Gemma or Michael or Maureen, not leaving time for the dust to settle one page. I saw others. I heard themspeak of their badges of travel. Sometrying to out do the other, but most seasoned enough to just have the need to be acknowledged. That's what we all need isn't it, to be acknowledged. The few I would make eye contact with seemed to say exactly what I needed to hear at the time (I know I am sounding a bit like a recluse, I promise I have not gone mad). Those first days in Pushkar I felt like a ghost, appearing in only a few chosen dreams. During this time I must have stopped long enough for the dust to settle around me.

One day, and I struggle to remember just when it was, but one day I looked up and I saw. Plies of dust, of sandy crests had fallen from the crusty shell I had spent years building. It had dropped to the earth and the gentle desert breeze was blowing it away. Leaving me deliciously vulnerable and more alive than I had remembered possible.

Om Nama Shiva

Each morning I would have a milk coffee at my hotel, the Hotel Krishna, sitting in a wicker chair watching the sun come through the Persian arches of the compund. The streets would still be waking, the saddhus on their curbs, the cows chewing rubbish, shopkeepers slowly raising their metal doors for another day of work. I would stop by the gate that I remember distinictively from 17 years past and buy flowers for my morning ritual at the lakes edge. Removing my shoes (no foot wear allowed 40 steps from the ghats), I would catch myself smiling at the early morning pilgrims gathered for prayer.

Each day I would sit on the crusty shelf above the lake and send each of you blessings. So grateful that I have you in my life. The pigeons would coo, the cows bellow, monkeys galloping past. Giant carp or catfish gulping the freshly released flowers that I had just sent of in blessing. And as the sun began to peak above the spire of the temple that had sheltered me from the blaze, I would gather myself up, shake the pepples from my feet and begin the delightful practice of watching the ghats fill with the colors of Indian people. Brahmins offereing pujas to many, water being carried fromthe lake to a temple for further worhsip. The town beat to the constant hum of gongs and drums that never cease. Om Nama Shiva, Om Nama Shiva whispered fromthe lips of

meditative priests sitting with ease in lotus position for hours.

I learned from a Brahmin while watching the sunset a little about the Hindu religion. Ganesha is always given a prayer first ,no mater what other God you may be seeking help from. Shiva, the destroyer and apparently the creator seems to

be the most widely worshipped God. The linga sitting on corners of the ghats, and in many temples. It was Shiva's birthday a few days ago arousing more saddhus and pilgrims than pervious days. His temples covered with marigolds, rose petals and the special leaf he so enjoys. Om Nama Shiva Om Nama Shiva.......and the chanting continues into the night.

Pushkar

Pushkar must become a destination for my tours! http://www.stressescapetours.com/ wouldn't it be great to hold a yoga retreat here????

Page 211 in the Lonely Planet's Guide to Rajasthan: PUSHKAR pop 14,789.

I was here in 1991 while traveling on my 'round the world airticket', the trip that made me hopelessly in love with travel. Pushkar was a very differnet so long ago. Most buildings were one story. Sadar bazaar road was a quiet road without any vehicles mind the occaisional camel or mule. The few shops that lined the streets were tailors, in fact, I remember having a pair of nifty pajamas made for my dad here. The quiet has long gone. Banana pancakes and Isreali signs dominate Sadar Bazaar now, internet signs and money changing stalls abound. India 'world cafe music' floats from stalls. Somehow all this, and the stream of tourists seamless blend in with the daily routines of Indian life. The weddings still take place, pilgrims from both city and desert come to puja at the holy lake.

"It's a Hindu pilgrim town, a cluster of pale onion domes, with 400 milky temples, where regular pujas (prayers) create the town's episodic soundtrack of chanting, drums, gongs and devotional songs booiming from the crackling loudspeakers. The town curls around a holy lake said to have appeared wth Brahma dropped a lotus flower. It also has one of the world's few Brahma temples." ~Lonely Planet Rajasthan pg. 211

Fifty two ghats edge the lake, allowing for worshippers to touch their hands or emmerse their entire body inthe dirtied water. I too touched the magical water only to see charcoal blasck water stream through my fingers.
Unfortunately motorized traffic has made it's way onto the narrow streets, at one time illegal. Now the bikes weave through the crowds blaring thier horns which have been adjusted tot he shrill whine. Together with the camels, cows, goats, mules and carts, we pedestrians wind through the alleys mesmerized by the scene

puja

"Pūjā (Devanagari: पूजा) (alternative transliteration Pooja, Sanskrit: reverence, honour, adoration, or worship) is a religious ritual that Hindus perform on a variety of occasions to pray or show respect to their chosen Gods or Goddesses. Puja basically involves making offerings to a chosen deity(s) so as to seek their blessings. The offerings are made with an acknowledgement – “I dedicate to you O God, what is truly yours.” The whole Puja is thus an acknowledgement of one’s smallness and humility, i.e. performance of Puja removes Ego, which is truly the only hurdle on the path to success." ~Wikapedia

Through invocations, prayers, songs, and rituals, puja is preformed. An essential part of puja for the Hindu devotee is making a spiritual connection with the divine. Most often that contact is facilitated through an object: an element of nature, a sculpture, a vessel, a painting, or a print.
During puja an image or other symbol of the god serves as a means of gaining access to the divine. This icon is not the deity itself; rather, it is believed to be filled with the deity's cosmic energy. It is a focal point for honoring and communicating with the god. For the devout Hindu, the icon's artistic merit is important, but is secondary to its spiritual content. The objects are created as receptacles for spiritual energy that allow the devotee to experience direct communication with his or her gods.

Often during puja, especially if in the presence of a priest, the reciepant may be smudged on their forehead with a colored power and a few grains of rice.

weddings

February and March are wedding season in Rajasthan, possibly in all of India. Pushkar has become a place for destination weddings. The small charming town stretches along the banks of a very dirty Pushkar Lake. Entire havelis are rented out for several days as entire villages will make the trek (often by foot) to celebrate the event. And an event it is. Multi-tasking apparently is not only a trait of the West. The party goers come to bathe in the holy waters, visit the Brahma temple (there are only a few in the world) that sits slightly higher than the ghat of it's name. In the evening the streets become a thundersous series of processions. Bands are hired to play as loud as they can as they can while the groom's family and friends weave through the narrow streets with the groom and a young boy fully decorated in the saddle of an equally dressed horse. Peasants are hired to carry huge lamps strung together by electric wire, powered by an exhaust spewing rickshaw following at the tail.

The men, typically the young lads, dressed in western pants and button down shirts (you would never see an Indian man in a T-shirt), will stop the procession every few hundred meters to begin dancing in a circle, twirling money above each others head to bring on good luck. I suppose those with more money can afford to hire the band for longer periods of time, often until late in the night. This past Friday it also happened to be full moon. Dozens of weddings took place on this auspicious eve. I was invited to a wedding of 10,000, the mayors daughter. Rgerettfully I declined-to go with the fellows at the hotel (who invited me) could have been taken the wrong way and besides the only clothes I have are 2 salawar suits that I got at the 'second hand' vendor by the train station in Bikaner. Feigning exhaustion, I snuggled into the heavy camel hair blanket, welcome in the cool windowless chamber I had made home. Even if I had been sleepy, the firecrackers and bands celbrated until well past midnight.

(and it sounds like I missed a good party)

Moustache competition

Pride swelled from their chests as they sat in the desert heat. Foreigners clicking away while they kept a stern face. Occaisonally taking a moment to sooth a stray hair or add an extra curl. I believe there were 8 in all and the gentleman with the thick rimmed glasses won the overall competition. Prizes were awarded for shine, length and overall apperance.

The bullock decorating contest was won by a man worn rom the Thar desert but obviously loving his favorite cow! These cows/bulls have humps in their backs and the 'coats' their owners made for the, often out of old burlap bags always had an extra piece sewn on to cover up the hump. The Minister of Tourism assembled a tug of war between foreigners and Indians-we lost both times.

Donkeys and camels continue to tramble the roads with wares. Rickshaws, buses and trucks blasting horns demanding they move aside, swerving cross the road narrowingly missing pedestrians or bicycles piled with 3 or 4 boys. I just close my eyes and pray.

hugs-b

women

Waiting for hours. zippping thru the sands of the Thar dessert, passing camel caravans, donkey cart and oil trucks. Landscape is dotted with the brick 'factories' I recently read about in the NY Times. Women are scarce, a wisp of color inthe stark landscape. Always in groups. Rarely if ever alone.

"Men are like kings. The birth of a male child is greeted by great rejoiceing and celebration, while the birth of a female child is a cuase for commiseration." ~Lonely Planet

The dowery system is still a significant part of the social framework. It has become an illegal practice, but is remains rooted in the Rajasthani bloood. Parents of the bride to be can be plunged into incredicble debt while trying to keep their honor. If the dowery-electronics, clothing, jewellery, cash is not adequete, further demands can be made. As India grows into a super power, these treads are slowly changing. Girls are begining to go to school and stay in school. They are not marrying immediately out of childhood and love marriages are even begining to take place.

Women wear a saree every day regardless of the day's task. Six meters of fabric folded and tucked while they cook, do laudry, sweep the roads, build a building, milk the cow. Girls, and we foreigners wear a Salawar suit-big baggy trousers and a long tunic top with a scarf around our shoulder backwards. Women, especially one that is married, always covers her head if not her face, going through life looking through a veil. Here in Pushkar, the women on pilgrimmage from the desert are also barefoot with somesort of jewellery that indicates the tribe they are in.

Naguar Camel Fair

Five thousand camels, several thousand heads of cattle

The dessert sucks the moisture out of your skin

Swirls of color as women skim the barren land

Camels in the streets, pulling mountains of hay

Maddening noise fromthe horns as we wiz by other vehicles

Tight alleys crowded with sarees, ramshakle carts overflowing with vegetables
Every day someone gives me a carrot

First hot shower in 5 days

Cows aimlessly wander

Thali's, parathas, curries, chai

Namaskar, danyavaad, ek, do, teen, chaar.... chello chello

2 1/2 hours, 12 hours, 2 hours driving the dessert- the mind goes quiet

India has numbed me or over stimulated me. Which ever, it is doing just as I needed. I am fully present.