Mon. Feb. 1, 2010

Yesterday morning I went onto my perch to greet the bright, sunny day. I had just finished reading The Alchemist and was still steeped in the mystic. Aradhana came out, not noticing me behind the hanging sheets. I watched as she bowed to the sun, quietly said her prayers, circled three times, then offered saffron water to a tulsi plant from a small brass jar. I knew it was saffron water because I had watched her grinding saffron in a small stone mortar and pestle the night before, and she had explained it was for puja. She has done this every day of her life and will continue until she dies. As I watched her, I felt a part of the connection between these people and their God. I was somehow a participant, not an onlooker. I'm sure part of my reaction was the fact that a plant was involved. God has come to me clothed in green for many years. Tulsi is known to us as Holy Basil. I plan to take seeds from the plants here and try to grow it at home.
After bathing and dressing, I meandered back to the balcony to watch India pass by, when I noticed a monkey sitting on the railing of the balcony as it wrapped around the house. He was carefully peeling the skin from a tomato with his teeth, then eating the pulp. The rest of the family saw him about the same time and the Bunder Alert rang out and all doors were slammed shut. Indians take these animals very seriously, as well they should. They can do an immense amount of damage in a short time. Arun then got a very long stick and, while remaining inside the house, shooed him away. The bag of tomatoes inadvertently left on the porch was ruined. In the fracas, two tomatoes were thrown onto the roof of the neighbor's carport. The little devil will surely return for them.
We decided to go with Arun and Smita bahoo to land they bought 15 years ago with some money she somehow received after the death of her mother. It took us an hour to get there by auto rickshaw, getting more and more rural as we went. When we were last here, it was all open land. Now their land, about one third of an acre, was completely enclosed within a high brick wall. At the rear of the property was a small brick dwelling with a wide covered porch. This was the residence of two brothers and their families. They were caretakers of the property. It seems that if not protected, people will just move in and claim ownership. Aradhana said this sort of thing could take years to settle in the courts. There is also now a well on the property. Other than the small building, the entire area was trees or garden. It was just lovely, the way you'd picture rural India to be. The family had a cow and her calf, which they fed with straw mixed with greens from the very large garden. The cow gave two gallons of milk a day. Of course the two young women immediately brought us cups of water and snacks. They didn't understand why JP and I did not drink. They were very gracious showing us their home, which consisted of one inside room, another that was the bathroom, and their tiny kitchen in one corner of the open porch. Being in the tropics, life is mostly lived outdoors. The man was especially pleased at my intense interest in his garden and ditch system of watering. Dung patties were stacked under the forest of trees which covered half of the property, to be sold for fine quality wood. Dung patties are dried and used for fuel. There is no foul odor. The women commented how nice I looked in my Indian clothes, but asked why I had no bindi on my forehead, since I was a married woman. Darn, I thought the bangles were enough for me to pass.
Later that same night the whole family went to the Dasaswamedh Ghat at sunset for Gunga Aarti. This is the last puja of the day, putting the Ganges to bed. It is an unbelievably beautiful sight, which always brings tears to my eyes. Eight young Brahman priests stand of platforms spaning 300 feet high above the water's edge. In unison they perform the long ritual of offering the river lit oil lamps, incense and camphor, bells, chanting, drums, flower petals and feather fans. The ghat is mobbed with Indians and foreigners. There are also many people watching from large and small boats in the river. As I look down the river, I see a city of lights floating along. These are candles offered to the river, placed in small bowls made of leaves and surrounded by flowers. I am sure this is on U-tube. Probably under Ganga Aarti Varanasi. There is another beautiful Ganga Aarti in Rishikesh. I really hope we get there on this trip, but it all depends on JP's knees.
I thank all of you who have emailed me to say you are enjoying the blog. It encourages me to keep risking my life trying to take notes while dodging rickshaws, scooters, and bulls.

Peace,
Nadine

Sun. Jan. 31, 2010

Smita bahoo showed us a very old black and white photo of the house in which she grew up. I was astonished. It was a huge mansion surrounded by a lot of land. This also explains her high education level. I could not understand why she had been married into such a relatively poor family as JP's. The story was all too familiar. Her father died when she was just two years old, leaving an older brother as king. By the time she was to be married, he had squandered all the family fortune, which was substantial, leaving no money for her dowry. Luckily she married into this loving family and has been happy. Stories like this are hard for me, an independent woman, to hear. Why can't the mothers control their profligate sons ? JP said that none of the young woman in his family would ever let this sort of thing happen now. They are educated and have rights. Once again I think, the only way to save this world is to educate woman and give them equal power with their men.

We decided, at my suggestion, to cross the river and wander through the small agricultural villages there. I notice a man carrying a grown, twisted man on his back. You could tell that this was a very normal for both of them. Just life. We drove through a large Moslem neighborhood. Here were the many black clad women I knew had to be somewhere here in Varanasi. All the men and boys with their white topis atop their heads, and babies, babies everywhere. Carried by women, or men, or other only slightly older siblings. No baby carriages here, or anywhere else in India. Our auto rickshaw driver asked other drivers how to get to the bridge. I mistakenly assumed we would be going over the huge, modern bridge. However, as the road kept getting smaller and bumpier, ending up an unpaved mess, I began to wonder. Then I saw the bridge. We were not going over the big bridge, we were headed for the very narrow planked pontoon bridge. So over the river we go, kerplunk, kerplunking, with about 6 inches and a rope barrier separating us from the river. I sure and heck did not see any other westerners on this bridge. I have learned to trust Indians, so was not really fearful until we had to pass another auto rickshaw. But very carefully, inch by inch, it was done and we reached the other side. This is another world here: peaceful, rural. We wanted to walk through the villages along the river so the driver again asked directions to get to the river's villages. And again, sure enough, we end up going through narrow alleyways with 1 inch on each side. Finally, still bumping along, we see fields with the river behind them. It was wonderful to walk through fields of growing vegetables, hopping over irrigation ditches, and walking on India's sacred dirt. I spoke with 3 little girls that just thought I was the funniest thing they had ever seen, especially when I needed the help of the driver and Arpit to jump over the ditches. After I had successfully jumped, I raised my arm in triumph yelling, "I am strong, women are strong, you are strong".

Naturally, on the way home we had to stop at the Vaatika restaurant in Assi. We had eaten lunch at home before we left for the day's adventure, so just had apple pie and Coke. I am not a soda drinker, but Coke is safe. JP, an apple pie connoisseur, raves about this one. There are no ovens like ours, so this restaurant bakes it in their wood heated pizza oven. Our favorite waiter here is Amarsingh. I remember him from the last trip because he appeared extremely dignified to be a waiter, even in this upscale restaurant. He is a very gentle man and shakes ever so slightly. Is this the beginning of palsy? JP asked him about his family, and his story emerges. He was trained as a lawyer, but when a daughter died from lack of money for medical care, he knew he had to do something else, so he became a waiter in this restaurant. JP again says how easily this could have been his story. No guarantees here, for anything. As we left the restaurant, I stood transfixed as I watched the bright, full moon shining on the Ganga. I am so blessed to be here. As we head back to the house I see a tiny Macrobiotic restaurant featuring tofu and gomashio. These have got to be some old hippies from the 70's.

This morning, as usual, I am awakened by bells, drums and chanting, and contentedly drift. Then I hear shouts and men talking excitedly. It seems very close, so after about a half hour, I get up to check. Directly under my perch on the balcony is a gigantic truck trying to turn into the small lane across the street. The rest of the family is also watching this ridiculous spectacle.

But sure enough, after about another half hour, inch by inch, the truck makes the turn and creeps down the curving ally. This epitomizes the Indian spirit. There is always a way to do what needs to be done.

Peace,

Nadine

Sat., Jan.30, 2010

Just had my first chat ever on line, Bill Gates has shrunk the world ! Jai greeted India thusly:"love ya mama! say hi to arun and anil and thajji and smita bhabi and anita bhabi and arun and the dhoodwalla and the dhobiwhalla and the guys that sputter past on the tractorloads of gravel at 4am and the daybreak bells of varanasi". The dhoodwalla is the milkman who delivers a half gallon of milk to the house every morning. Fresh, not pasteurized. He is the son of the old dhoodwalla, who was the son of the old dhoodwalla, who was the son..... Same with the dhobiwhalla, the washerman.

Today we head back to the ghats, turning left toward the main cremation ghat. As we crawl through traffic,, I notice that it is very easy to spot widows here. They do not wear their colorful glass bangles anymore. When a husband dies, his wife shatters her glass bangles, leaving only the gold, and will wear them no more. I am reminded of the haunting Alison Krause song from Cold Mountain: "The crimson tide trickles down from the mountain, separating the widow from the bride". We are concerned about Anil's health after his stroke. He does not look well. I asked JP what would happen to Anita bahoo if he died. JP said he did not know, there are no rules. I appear to be obsessed with widows, for obvious reasons, as JP and I age. We actually talked about this today. Of course he would like to be cremated here, as would I, but I don't think an unembalmed body could be legally transported half way around the world. And we are NOT going to be embalmed (take note my children). So, I guess we will be cremated in the US and our ashes brought here.

We walk slowly along the ghats, passing many interesting things. Men sewing on old treadle sewing machines. At first I think of this as old fashioned. Then I remember the one Benita was using in Gurgaon. She turned the crank with her right hand and moved the material with her left. (She makes a little money sewing pillowcases for people). And I thought how much she would appreciate a treadle machine. All things are relative. Indian site seers in long row boats gliding along the river. I know they are Indians because no westerner would ever get into such an overcrowded craft. Orange clad holy men, foreheads smeared with ocher. A very brave boy trying to get his kite string disentangled from the tail of a huge bull. Girls playing a form of hopscotch. A dog scratching a body completely covered with sores from mange (I send him a quick blast of Reiki). Suddenly people shout at us and we look to see two bulls fighting and heading right to us. We scatter for safety and wait until they are well past. I came close to being killed by bulls, near this very spot, on our last trip. I was walking up the long, wide steps to the top of the bluff along the burning ghat when a cow, with a bull atop her, came running diagonally down the steps from above, crossing behind me on the step I had just left. I felt the breeze pass behind me and heard everyone gasp. That was probably the only chance I had to actually be cremated here. There is always something good hidden within something bad. We pass the ancient scales for weighing the wood used for cremation just as we begin to make out the bodies burning. Hindus dream of dying here in Varanasi in order to break the cycle of life and death. So, you will see old people dressed in rags with a small bag tied around their waists. This contains the money for the wood to cremate them. There are towering stacks of wood along the bluff here. These fires go continually. There is a saying here that the ground of this cremation ghat will never be cooled. I have been here when there was a long line of heavily laden boats snaking down the river, waiting to deliver wood . We stand in silence, along with a few other westerners, and watch as gold clad bodies are brought to the river and partially submerged, then back up to wait their turn to be annihilated.

I found myself hearing Handle's Messiah in my head, ..."and the body will rise incorruptible". With their belief in reincarnation, Hindus would never understand the idea of God bothering to raise up dead bodies. Why bother. The body is nothing more that an old coat, discarded for a new one. While the bodies slowly burn, other piles of cooled ash are raked into the river. Bits of gold are scattered everywhere. Twenty feet away, a boy washes his water buffalo while others fly their kites. Ordinary, so ordinary.

Peace,

Nadine

Wed., Jan 27

My new long sleeved suites have arrived, along with warm weather, natch. After I dressed in one of them, I went to Anita bahoo's room to show her my new duds. She smiled as I entered, but gave me the shoo-away sign. As I backed out of the room, Arpit, who luckily was there, told me she was telling me to come in. Well, that explained a lot of misunderstandings over the years.
As I prepared for the trip to Sarnath, which for me means finding my pen and notepad, I noticed that the wool I had bought and stored on the balcony was gone. Smita bahoo explained she had moved it, fearing the monkeys would take it. I thought, yea, they could probably knit a better sweater than I. Across the street a boy of about 7 skipped out of the house on the way to school. Could this have been the miracle baby ? A palanquin carried by two men passed at the same time. These are still used here, although infrequently.
The auto rickshaw has arrived. JP, Smita and I squeeze into the back. Arpit rides along on his motorscooter, Aradhana sitting behind, followed by Arun on his scooter. Although just 20 miles away, it takes about an hour's drive. We are quickly out of the city into rural India, small agricultural plots and thatched roofed houses. I know when we are approaching Sarnath by the number of red clad monks appearing.
Buddha came to Sarnath, in about 500 BC to preach his first sermon after reaching enlightenment in Bodhgaya. In the 3rd century BC the great Buddhist emporer, Ashoka, had magnificent stupas and monasteries build here. By 640 CE there were 1500 monks living here. However, shortly thereafter Moslem invaders destroyed and desecrated the city's buildings, and Sarnath disappeared altogether. It was rediscovered by British archeologists in 1835. Sarnath is now a beautiful park, even boasting a small zoo. I'm not sure how Buddha would have felt about animals being caged as an honor to him, but the families visiting on this holiday are certainly enjoying it. Along with the red clad monks, I notice old Tibetan nuns in brown, all fingering their japa malas (rosary beads).
On the spot where Buddha gave this first sermon, are six huge statues depicting the event. Surrounding the statues are large engravings giving the entire first sermon in many languages. We walked through the Mulagandha Kuty Vimara temple and marveled at the murals completely covering the walls. At the front alter sits a huge golden statue of Buddha. Monks sit at the base, chanting. Arun is fasting today as it is Tuesday, Lord Hanuman's day, but the rest of us ate lunch at one of the few restaurants here, largely forgettable, and went in search of the magnificent South Korea temple. Jai seems to be the only person who is able to find this temple easily, but we are determined. We turn up a small lane and are instantly transported back to the Sarnath Buddha must have known. As we proceed, it becomes all too evident that this is not a place for auto rickshaws, despite their small size. As the path gets narrower and narrower, the villagers sitting on their steps look at us as though we are from Mars. We stop to ask directions and an elderly woman hops in, determined to show us the way. Suddenly we are not on a path at all, but are on the shore of a small lake, bouncing away. Then before we know it, we are traveling along a narrow alleyway between the backs of the houses. There is about one inch of space between us and the stone walls of the alley. We approach a T intersection when I just start laughing at the ridiculousness of the situation. But, by golly, the driver managed to make a 10 point turn and off we went. By this time the old woman had tired of us and, pointing the way, hopped out. By this time we are all laughing hysterically. The driver calmly takes it all in stride; just another day.
Somehow we actually manage to find the temple and I immediately recognize the ornate gateway. As we walk to the temple, we pass masterful chalk drawings on the pavement, done each morning by the monks, only to be worn away during the day. A tribute to impermanence. We also pass the "Butter Lamp " room, where 100 candles constantly burning in honor of the Buddha. All are welcome to come in and light one. Written in stone on the outside of this most ornately beautiful buildings is the text of "The Explanation of 12 Links of Dependent Origins", inscribed in stone. The ornate detail of this magnificent temple is difficult to describe. One huge golden Buddha surrounded by 108 (?) small ones in glass boxes and many hundreds more in even smaller boxes. The painted wood carvings everywhere are brightly painted, and I just look, mouth agape, as I always do when I am in this place.
Down the road we find the Tibetan temple, much less grand than the South Korea one, yet somehow more profound. I think the pain of the Tibetan people permeates this place. Outside the temple is a large hand written plaque detailing the plight of the Tibetan people at the hands of the Chinese: 1.2 million Tibetans killed, 6000 monistaries destroyed, forced abortion and sterilizations, 7.5 million Chinese moved into Tibet leaving the 6 million Tibetans a minority in their own country. At the bottom it read, "Please help us". I cried.
There are many more things to see in Sarnath, but it is getting dark, so we head home. We are all exhausted when we arrive back. JP and I lay down, Smita bahoo starts dinner.

Peace,
Nadine

Mon. Jan. 25 (continued)

Apologies. Every time I try something new on the blog, I can't get back to the compose page and must start afresh.

Back at home we await the arrival of the newly employed Arpit, home for a few days before his job begins. He finally arrives from his train trip from Delhi and I am so pleased to see his broad, smiling face and slightly Asian eyes. His English has always been very good, so he gets my stupid jokes. His new job is in Gurgoan, which seems to be sucking up all the youth of Varanasi. He will be sharing a 3 bedroom apt. with 7 other Varanasi boys. They will have a cook who will prepare breakfast and dinner for them. It is very cheap to hire a cook here. JP worries it is too many people in a small apt. I say it sounds like a great adventure. All is in perception.

Tues. Jan 26

Today is Republic Day, 60 years since India won its independence from the British. There is a huge parade in Delhi, which we watched on the little used TV. The many floats are actually wonderfully done tableaus from all parts of India. Being a gardener, I was especially interested in the one showing a bamboo drip system. While I am in India, my gardening guru, Bob, is installing a drip system in my garden, which will free up 2 hours a day for me this summer. Boy, am I excited. The parade is being watched by India's female president, Pratibha Patil, and its Sikh prime minister, Man Mohan Singh. We will celebrate the day, a holiday, by going to Sarnath with the whole family. The only person missing is Anita bahoo, who has gone to her family's home 100 miles away. It has been 10 days since her sister died, and there is a 10th day ritual, ending the formal mourning period. I asked Aradhana how here cousins were doing after the death of their mother. "Crying a lot. Don't worry, Dadiji, drink your tea." Life goes on. I will report the trip to Sarnath tomorrow, as it is an important place for my Buddhist buddies in Taos. Arpit has taken lots of good pictures of Sarnath, but doesn't know how to import them. He and JP will try to figure it out later.

JP is ready for us to go back to the ghats, going left toward the main burning ghat. One week left before we head out on our own for a 3 week trip around the country.

Peace,

Nadine

Mon. Jan.25

Well, it happened. I did the head wobble before I even realized it. Inevitable. I also hear myself saying "Ok, Ok" a lot. I picked this up from my 22 month old grandson, Gabriel. He uses this phrase often during the day, usually in response to "Would you like a snack?" Those hungry Gentile genes asserting their presence. Spoke quite a while with Jai today on the phone. Ten cents per minute. He complimented me on my writing. This meant a lot as he is an excellent writer. I am reminded of a day about 6 years ago when Jai had come home from college for the weekend. He showed me a paper he had done onto which his professor had written compliments to his writing. I puffed up and said, "That is because you come from a family that speaks good English. He responded gently, "Mom, you mean 'that speaks English well' ". I still laugh when I think of it.

There are definite rules here. One is that you have special shoes used only for the bathroom. Another is door protocol. The doors here are shutter like. If you do not want to be disturbed, you close them completely. If you are busy, but don't mind an occasional interruption, you open them about 8 inches. If you open them completely, all are welcome. Our dilemma now is how to be sociable but keep in the heat from our little electric heater. A most important rule is only touching food or offering something to someone using your right hand. Left hands are used when you are wearing bathroom shoes. Is that put sensitively enough. Now you more clearly understand the punishment of cutting off the right hand of a thief.

As I read through past blogs, I realize I have given a false impression of Anita Bahoo and Smita Bahoo. Not only do they both work tirelessly at home, Anita helps her husband at their little stationary store down the street, and Smita tutors 5 little boys after school. She has a master's degree in Indian Literature.

I put on my gold bangles and we go into the storm of traffic back to the peace of BHU, after JP spends the requisite 5 minutes arguing with the rickshaw wally over price. As I have mentioned before, there are many maimed and crippled people here. I see many wheeling themselves about in their hand-cranked wheelchairs. Others are limping about with nothing more than a stick to help them. As soon as we pass through the gates of BHU, we take a deep breath as peace descends. As I walk along a wall, I am pelted with peanut shells from above. Monkeys. These are cute little devils that can cause a lot of mischief. JP recalled times in his childhood when a monkey would take a piece of clothing off the line and hold it for ransom, only returning it when you gave them some food. I see them sitting by the food court here, their intelligent little faces constantly alert for discarded food. I can almost hear them saying "OK, OK". I see college boys holding hands or walking hand and hand. There is no fear of being dubbed effeminate here. It is very easy to distinguish poor from rich by their size. The poor tiny from generations of poor nutrition. We pass the gazebo where Archana was first introduced to her soon-to-be husband, with family in toe of course. There are garlands of marigolds thrown into trees. I don't know why. Groups of college boys sitting on the ground, laughing, chatting, and surreptitiously looking at groups of girls. Somethings transcend culture.

We sat on side steps to the temple there, JP chanting from the Gita while I closed my eyes, turning my face to the warming sun.

Returning home JP looked at our rickshaw wally and commented how easily that could have been his life but for the money his brother had scrapped together to pay for his final college exam.

Back at home

Mon. Jan.25

The rhythm of the day begins with the clanging of the temple bell up the street, shortly followed by the clanging of the bell and loud drumming at the ashram across the street. Traffic begins to flow at the same time I hear the woman getting up and bathed. I noticed that all through the night I hear the sound of huge trucks going by this small street. I'm sure it is the only time they would ever have been able to get through. Even the cows are off the streets at night. About 6 AM I hear Dadiji (grandmother, I too am Dadiji here ) at her little alter, saying prayers, reading scriptures, offering flowers to the little gods and goddesses. One small candle burns. We will see her there, on and off, throughout the day. She laments that at her age she no longer has work to do. At 7 AM one of the bahoos brings us chai and biscuits. After I'm sure everyone else has bathed, I slip into the bathroom. I am afraid I upset the finely tuned timing of bathroom use, but they always put my needs first. Breakfast is served to us in our room at about 9 AM. Today is was pakora (vegetable tempura), chura-matar ( rolled rice mixed with small pieces of veggies), and two types of chutneys. Of course, everything is deliciously spiced. Then comes coffee, an unusually large serving of about 6 oz. Outside, home and store owners are assiduously sweeping the dirt in front of their establishments. This seems like an exercise in futility to me, but is important to them. There is really very little of what we would call garbage here. It is mostly dirt, with a few small pieces of paper and a couple of small plastic bags. They sweep it up into small piles to be picked up by the garbage man in his bicycle cart, about 3X5 ft. Indians just do not create much garbage. There vegetables are bought fresh daily, brought to their door in carts and weighed by hand held scales, skins and pits thrown into the street where they are quickly scarfed up by a wandering cow. I think of all the things we Americans believe we must have to live: Metamucil, hair conditioner, zip lock bags, and of course toilet paper. I am always amazed how much stuff the Indians can pack onto a rickshaw cart, often loads that would strain my old Toyota pick up. These bicycle rickshaw guys may look skinny, but they must be all muscle.

I noticed that our friend, Brenna, was reading the blog. Brenna is a real devotee of the subcontinent and has spent much time in India working for various non-profits. She is in the US right now, planning to start her own non-profit in India. When she visited the Varanasi family here last year, they were shocked and very pleased when she spoke to them in excellent Hindi.

For the last few days we noticed groups of boys, mostly teenagers, following behind effigies of Saraswati, the goddess of learning, music and art. They were shouting praises to her and having a grand old time, reminiscent of high school pep rallies. We later found out that these statues were brought to the river, offered to it, and placed into it. This was something new to JP.

We took JP's cloth to a fancy men's clothing store to be tailored. The suits on display looked garish to me, but beauty is in the eye of the beholder. As we walked along the narrow allies of Varanasi, along with crowds of people, scooters and the occasional bull, I happened to look up (a dangerous thing to do) and saw that many of the houses above the shops were adorned with magnificently wrought iron fretwork, coated with centuries of grime. Beauty is everywhere here, you just have to look up or through the mayhem to see it. I know I keep describing the congestion of the roads, but when I manage to take a peek through many of the walls lining the streets, I see well tended gardens, or the wide expanses of green school courtyards.

As we walked along the ghats yesterday, I started talking with two little girls, about 8 and 10. The both spoke English well. The older one proudly explained that she went to school and liked it very much. Regarding her little friend: "She does not go to school. She sells bindi on the ghats". The little girl looked down at the ground as her friend said this. Bindi are the pretty little stickers that you wear on your forehead. JP said that all kids are supposed to go to school, but there is no one to police this. I again tried not to judge, and told them I wished I spoke Hindi as well as they spoke English. There are much fewer beggars here than in the past. I am very pleased because I take a hard line on beggars. They are not good for India and drive away tourists.

We ate lunch at the Brown Bread Bakery. It was difficult to find in the narrow Vishwanath Gali (lane) because people were lined up for blocks waiting to get into the sacred Vishwanath temple at the end of the lane. Only Hindus are allowed into this temple, so I am excluded. Jai has gotten into it though. The restaurant was on the second floor of an old mansion and we sat on the Indian style bed, onto which a foot high table had been placed. This place is recommended in the Lonely Planet guide books and was filled with travelers from all over the world. JP was the only Indian in the place, and the cook, who was from Nepal, talked to him for quite a while. I'm sure they do not get many Indians here. We sat under the opening to the sky two floors up. I ordered Pad Thai, which was delicious. The restaurant donates much of its profits to schools and other worthy causes. Many of the travelers we met had been traveling the world for many months, even years. I applaud them, but even when young, would never have done so. I am basically a home body. As one of my favorite songs, Gulf Coast Highway, puts it: "....now jobs are gone, I tend my garden, I set the sun ".

As I look from my perch, I see saris hanging from balconies across the street, drying in the sun, a riot of color and design. I remember the story of what happened on the 4th floor balcony of that building about 5 years ago. Somehow a baby managed to climb the iron railing of the balcony, and fell to the ground. I still can't see how it was not impaled on the arrows atop the wall surrounding the house, or killed as it hit the roadway. Somehow the baby fell onto the foot of dirt between the wall and the road, and was miraculously unhurt. The mother, who was working in the room next to the balcony, did not realize anything had happened until she heard a man yelling "Whose baby is this ?". The railing of that balcony was immediately extended to the ceiling. There are other miracles here: we have seen no dead dogs, and cars are unscathed.

Today is Sunday, bright and sunny. Both Smita Bahoo and Anita Bahoo have washed their hair, drying it in the sun on the balcony. It hangs coal black and shiny to their waists. They are laughing and chatting, joined quickly by their husbands, Dadiji, and JP. I have no idea what they are laughing about, but it doesn't matter. I just love the sound of a happy family chattering away.

Aradhana and I went shoe shopping today. I bought men's sandals, as woman's were too narrow. They cost a whopping $45 bucks, so they better last. Of course, they are not leather, which would not be acceptable in a country which revers cows. We are ready to go out of the house now.

Peace,

Nadine

Sat. Jan.23, 2010

Today is my son Robby's 40th birthday. He has grown into an honorable man, and a great father to his two sons.
Our trip to Bodh Gaya was cancelled, that darn fog again. We will try again in a few days. JP explained that the fog was caused in the winter by so many people breathing and so many fires lit. We are rethinking our plans to go to Rishikesh. We always stay in the Shivananda ashram there, which is half way up a mountain. JP does not think he could handle the steep climb up and down the mountain to the town. We'll see. I thought I'd give you a quick description of the house here in Varanasi. It is a second floor apartment with 8 good sized bedroom/living/dining rooms. There are also 2 galley kitchens, a large hall, and one bathroom. This is where this family of 11 has lived for many years. It is rent controlled, which is certainly a blessing, and cost about $25 per month rent. At about 5 AM Anita Bahoo (that is what I should call her) wakes and bathes. Then, one by one, everyone wakes and bathes in turn. No fighting over bathroom time here. The women then sweep, do laundry, etc. At about 7 AM chai and a few biscuits are served. Between 9 AM and 10 AM breakfast is served. More like a light lunch. The men and Aradhana go off to work, and the women go about the day, preparing for lunch and dinner, this and that. Lunch is served between 2 and 3 PM, dinner between 9 and 10 PM. We all eat dinner together, in the one unoccupied bedroom. The day is spent mostly without electricity, which goes off at about 9 AM. The only impact of its going off is that the little electric heater in our room goes off.
We went shopping with Smita Bahoo. I am a liability in many ways here, and must disappear when money is to change hands. I walk way behind or way in front of them until they come to an agreement with the bicycle rickshaw walla regarding price. Then I am allowed to appear and jump in. This is also the drill when we need to buy something. I was having a terrible time hauling myself up into the high rickshaws until Anil showed me the trick of stepping onto the lower part of the bike first. Our first stop was the Gandhi Ashram cloth store. The cotton here is woven on small family looms, as Gandhi encouraged. JP got material for an Indian top and bottom and I got fabric for a long sleeve "suit", as they call sawal kameez. Then off to the tailor to be measured.
As we rode or walked along the streets, we noticed that all the cheap mannequins outside the shops, showing samples of the sari's within, were white. Odd. I get such a kick out of watching whole families on their scooters: toddler in front of dad, another small kid behind him, mom in back holding the baby. Of course mom is sitting side saddle and wearing a sari. They zip in and out of traffic with ease. Another thing that tickles me is the bicycle school bus. They are little covered wagons carrying 8 kids and all their book bags where 4 American kids would be squeezed. The rickshaw walla peddles with ease, turning around to chastise the kids if they get out of hand.
It finally got warm enough to walk on the ghats today. The ghats are the wide, terraced steps leading to and along the river. They are always a beehive of activity. There are men and women's bathing ghats, ghats for puja, ghats for peeing (you hold your nose and run past ), ghats for water buffalo, and of course, the burning ghats. As we walked south we passed the smaller burning ghat. This one is level with the pedestrian walkway, so the bodies are burning about 10 feet away from us. The families are standing right next to the burning bodies of their loved ones, chatting with their relatives. Death is treated in such an ordinary manner here as it is, indeed, so ordinary. I have told my children that if they do not cremate me, I will find a way to come back and haunt them. The thought of my body being pumped full of toxic chemicals and locked away from nature grosses me out. I actually would prefer to be dispensed the Parsi way. They put the bodies into high trees for the birds to eat. They call it "The final act of compassion". Years ago I heard a story on NPR about the plight of the Parsi's (Zoroastrians) plight in Mumbai. There was a large population of Parsi's there, with about 40 deaths a day. The problem was, that due to pollution and population growth, there were no longer enough carrion birds to quickly clean the bodies. They were trying to decide what to do: burn them as the Hindu's did, bury them as the Christians and Moslims did, or open aviaries to raise more carrion birds. I never knew what they decided. As we continued our walk toward Assi, we had to duck under clotheslines strung every which way with drying clothes or walk around sheets drying on the ground. There are garlands of marigolds floating down the river or washed up on the shore, offerings made to the river. Ancient palaces line the river, some turned into guest houses, some abandoned. The sound of chanting is everywhere, mumbled, sung, shouted, blasted over loud speakers.
As we take the rickshaw home, through gridlocked streets, we pass two Moslem men carrying a sari stretched between them, followed by a loud generator blasting their holy music. People throw money into the sari.
It is 11 PM. My day is ending, yours beginning.

Peace,
Nadine

Thur. Jan. 21

We went to Banaras Hindu University today to see the Ayurvedic doctors here regarding JP's arthritis and my long time companion, high blood pressure. This is a free clinic and part of the professors' duties. Four years ago these guys managed to get me off Celebrex for my arthritis and even cured my potato allergy for about 3 years. While examining me, the doctor respectfully asked me if I would like to step on the scale. I disrespectfully told him no, but did it anyway. Surprise, surprise, he said I had to loose weight. Yea, right, I'll get right on that. As Popeye would say: "I yam what I yam, what I yam". I am now taking allopathic, Chinese, herbal and Ayurvedic medicines for my high blood pressure. This is a beautiful campus and is JP's Alma Mater. It was founded in 1917 and is 40 square kilometers of classic Indian architecture, woodlands and gardens. It is a peaceful respite from the crush of the city. At the entrance to the campus was an auto rickshaw with a dead body on its roof, undoubtedly on its way to the cremation ghat. Walking on the streets of the city you can easily see 4 or 5 five bodies being carried to the cremation ghats. As the men in the family carry the white or gold clad bodies high on a wooden bier, they chant and almost trot.
As we walk about the city I marvel at the mass of humanity around me. Although they are busy as bees, Indians somehow exude a dignified stillness and grace. I really admire that, and wish I could achieve it. JP, Smita, and I discuss the plight of India. In JP's lifetime the population has tripled from 350 million to 1.1 billion. In the same time period, the US population has doubled. Smita also noted that the Ganga is shrinking. I have read that the ancient iceberg that feeds the Ganges is melting quickly. I don't want to think of the consequences of India without this great, sacred river. I am reminded of a line from the book Angels and Demons: "Progress is mother earth's ultimate malignancy".
At 6 AM I am awakened by the sounds of bells, drums, and loud chanting from the ashram across the street and the nearby temples. I wonder how long the sun has been greeted in this manner. It reminds me of another book, The Little Prince, by Exupere (sp), where a prideful emperor of a tiny planet sits atop a mountaintop early every morning and orders the sun to rise, thus proving his all encompassing power. Cause and effect is a tricky thing. Soon after awakening, I hear Bhabi chanting at the little alter outside our room in the hall. Soon she will leave for her rounds of the temples. Everyone here, men and women, start their day by visiting their local temple for a quick prayer. As they exit the temple, the local priest ties a red string around their wrists, reminding them that they are protected by the divine. I should mention here that, all signs to the contrary, Hinduism is a monotheistic religion. God is Vishnu, who is part of a trinity including Brahma and Shiva. Separate but equal. This is just like the trinity of Father, Son and Holy Ghost of Catholicism in which I grew up. All other gods or goddesses are manifestations or aspects of Vishnu or Shiva.
There was a story in the paper this morning about 3 college students who made a $10 bet that whichever one would kiss this particularly pretty girl first, would win all the money. One brave boy finally got up the nerve to do it and was expelled, along with his two friends. This culture wisely keeps a very tight thumb on premarital sex. There is also no public displays of affection. Bindu wants told me how strange it was for her when she first came to America to see people pawing each other in public and constantly saying "I love you". Did they have to remind each other all the time that they loved them? I was raised the same way by my Italian parents.
I find myself forgetting proper punctuation, and wish my old supervisor, Dave, were here to proof read this blog, as he did with all the criminal investigation I did. He told me that he printed out the email blog I did on my last trip, and corrected it as he went. I am also getting confused between what I have already written and what I have thought about writing. I wake up and realize I have been dreaming of writing poetic and erudite descriptions of things. Of course they immediately dissipate, leaving only scraps of mundane thought at the door of my memory. I guess my unconscious mind is still as hungry for praise as my conscious mind.
Every one on the streets here, no matter how poor, is wearing beautifully hand knitted sweaters. The Indian women are expert knitters, making my knitting look amateurish. It is a quirk of fate that most of these excellent knitters can only afford cheap, poor quality yarn. While I, a much less skillful knitter, can afford the highest quality wool yarn, called sheep's hair here. It humbles me. I remember stories Bindu would tell of her and her sisters sitting quietly on their beds, experimenting with different knitting stitches during prescribed siestas.
I have noticed a few wild pigs here in India on previous trips. Now there seems to be many more of them, one group of 8 even being herded by a young man. I could not imaging who would want to buy pigs, as neither Hindus nor Moslems eat them. Smita had the answer. It is the tourists in the few fancy hotels who want to eat pork.
I have not been able to spend much time on the balcony, referred to as Nadine's perch, because of the cold. I have always loved standing there, watching India go by. However I was able to catch the small herd of water buffalo go by as they made their way to the river, as they have done for thousands of years. I love these animals, with heads down, slowly plodding along, undisturbed by the tumult around them. I also marvel at the electrical wiring while I am on my perch. It looks as if someone has dumped a huge pot of tangled, black spaghetti onto poles and strung them together with more black spaghetti. While Jai was sleeping here one night, the transformer across the street blew, sounding and looking as though a nuclear bomb had exploded.
JP had forgotten the way to the Pilgrim's book store, but somehow I remembered it. This is quite an anomaly in the workings of my brain since I cannot even remember the way to my friend Carol's home in Taos, all of 2 miles from my house. This is a magnificent book store. It is off a quiet ally near the Durga temple. Beautifully decorated in white marble, with a gentle waterfall leading to a sunken pool with pillows around it for sitting. It is filled with spiritual books from all over the world, including many Buddhist books. While there I bought tons of postcards, much easier then haggling over price for them on the streets. I also bought a small book of the hilarious stories of the Mulla Nasruddin. Bindu would tell me some of these hysterical stories when I would visit her in Maryland. I'll give her this book on my next visit so she can read them to her little granddaughters when they are old enough.
While at BHU we went to the Visranath temple there. It is a beautiful and elegant Shiva temple. Shoes off, touch the steps and ring the overhead bell as you enter and leave, hands prayerful, circle the sunken lingum three times. All there is in a Shiva temple is a cylindrical shaped stone, depicting the penis of Lord Shiva, the life force of the universe. It is usually bedecked with flowers. Indians do not have the baggage we have inherited from the Puritans regarding sex. It is a gift from God and a fun thing you get to do when you are married. Period. I somewhat guiltily bought tons of those find wool yarns the same day. Enough to last me the rest of my life. Cost, about $100. Cost in US, about $800.
The winter marriage season has just begun and the first of many marriage ceremonies past under the balcony that night. They are a noisy, bright affair. The groom's family live just up the street and the house is strung with colored lights. The family and all the guests greet the groom at his home as he prepares to go fetch his bride at her home. A large band, playing terrible and incredibly loud music is accompanied by people with lighted chandeliers on their heads, powered by a truck with a noisy generator. The groom is heavily bedecked with jeweled clothing and is riding a white horse. Some men are dancing wildly to the "music" and the guests follow behind. All then proceed to the bride's home. From experience I can tell you that the girl is not enjoying this day. She is exhausted from the days of rituals and festivities, and terrified of leaving her family for her "new life" with a man and his family that she does not know. I put "new life" in quotes because that is the way young girls describe getting married. The marriage itself, where the fire is the witness, will take place at a time prescribed by astrology, often in the middle of the night. Also, the astrological charts of the prospective couple have been checked to make sure they are compatible.
As we walk the crowded streets of Varanasi, we pass the house where JP and his family lived after his father died, leaving them penniless. It has 3 stories, one large room on each floor, each inhabited by a large family. The entire house shares one bathroom, which no one wanted to clean. I understand this man, whom I have known for 35 years, better and better as I hear these stories. He also shows me the exact spot where he stood, at age 8, and heard the devastating news of Gandhi's death. I also recall in detail where I was when I heard the news of JFK's death. I'm sure all Americans of a certain age have that same moment seared into their memories. In this part of town we see people from all other the world, even two Hasidic Jews, with their black suits, hats, and earlocks. There are multitudes of people here, selling all manner of matter. As my heart goes out to those I consider unfortunate, I am comforted to see the children of the poor, still laughing and playing, the crippled, still going about their business, and starving puppies, still wagging their tails. Who am I to judge the quality of a life.

Peace,
Nadine

I'm going to pause my mental meanderings here and give you a history of Varanasi, with help from JP and The Lonely Planet's guide book on India. The intro to Varanasi in the guide book is so great, I'm going to type it verbatim:

"Brace yourself. You area about to enter one of the most blindingly colorful, unrelentingly chaotic and unapologetically indiscreet places on earth. Varanasi takes no prisoners. But if you're ready for it, this may just turn out to be your favorite stop of all.

Also known at various times in history as Kashi or Benares, this is one of the world's oldest continually inhabited cities, and one of the holiest places in India. Hindu pilgrims come to the ghats lining the River Ganges here to wash away a lifetime of sins in the sacred waters or to cremate their loved ones. It is a particularly auspicious place to die, since expiring here offers moksha (liberation from the cycle of birth and death), making Varanasi the beating heart of the Hindu universe. Most visitors agree it is a magical place, but not for the faint-hearted. Here the most intimate rituals of life and death take place in public and the sights and sounds in and around the ghats can be overwhelming. Persevere. Varanasi is unique, and a walk along the ghats or a boat ride on the river will live long in the memory."

The city dates back to about 1200 BC. The Afgans destroyed the city around 1300, after laying waste to nearby Sarnath. But the most destructive force to attack Varanasi was the fanatical Mughal emperor Aurangzeb, who, in the early 19th century, looted and destroyed almost all the city. All in the name of God, of course. The old city may look ancient, but few buildings are more than a couple of hundred years old.

The ghats along the Ganges are my favorite part of the city, and one the only places where you can walk without the danger of getting run over. The one I refer to and use to navigate from is the Dasaswamedh Ghat. Every evening at 7 an elaborate Ganga Aarti ceremony is performed here. When I see this most beautiful ceremony, I usually cry. It is so cold here now that we cannot go out at night. Hopefully, before we leave Varanasi for the final time on this trip, it will be warm enough to attend the ceremony. By the way, aarti is the last puja of the day, when the gods are put to bed. Even in this household, Babhi lays her tiny brass gods down and covers them with the robes she has made for them. Ritual is an integral part of Indian life. I too have always been a big fan of ritual. My favorite ritual in life now is waking up at 5 AM on a winter's morning to a cold house. I start the fire in our wood stove and meditate a bit, watching the flames grow and dance about. Then I curl up in the rocking chair by the stove and read. Life is good.

India suffered a thousand years of Moslem invasions, and the memory survives. Hindu's are wary of Moslems, but usually manage to live side by side peacefully. My heart goes out to the world's peace loving Moslems who bear the brunt of the radicalized minority. Christianity went through the same savage stages when it raped and pillaged its way through the Moslem world in the crusades. All in the name of the peaceful Jesus, and plunder of course. Although much of the population of Varanasi is Moslem, I have only seen a few Moslem women, covered from head to tow in their black burkas. I don't think they go out of their homes much. Bindu tells me that at home, their husbands like them to dress provocatively. The only problem I have with Islam is its belief that you must have as many children as God gives you. This also keeps them poor and uneducated. This is not to say there are not very well educated Moslems here, it is just a general statement. I share Hindu's frustration with this belief. They no longer have large families. JP's nieces and nephews have had no more than 3 children. We expect that their children, who are now just beginning to have kids, will only have 2. Also, the Hindus are getting married at older ages, girls at about 25, boys close to 30. I was aghast to learn from one of my many podcasts ( I am addicted to free podcasts through I Tunes) that there is a group of evangelical Christians in the US, calling themselves Quiver Full, who also believe that women should have as many children as God gives them. Their God must not be paying attention to the state of this earth he created. One thing I really miss from the Moslem world is the Muzzin, the call to prayer broadcast from high towers. It is so eerily beautiful. I'm surprised I have not heard it here.

I was very happy to read that there is a effort to clean up the Ganges. The problem is not the hoards of people who use it daily. Rather, it is the untreated sewage that is dumped in it daily.

On Tues., 1/19 we went shopping with Smita. I bought cloth to make 3 new salvar-kameez's. Not because I wanted more Indian clothes, but because I only have two with long sleeves and it is freezing here. The tailor came from next door, measured me, and said they would be done in a few days. Indian women do not buy clothes off the rack. They choose from a myriad of fabrics and have them made by a tailor, who charges a few dollars. Then off to the eyeglass shop for two pairs of new glasses for JP. I also brought a pair of very expensive sunglasses that had been hopelessly scratched to have new glass installed. This would have cost $150 in the US. We are guessing it will cost about $30 here. Then off to the narrow streets of the old town where not even bicycle rickshaws can pass. We were here to buy Banaris silk saris for all the women in Delhi and Varanasi. JP always does this when we are here. Banaris silk saris are the most prized in all of India, costing up to $10,000. They are traditionally woven by Moslem families. Of course, we were not buying the $10,000 ones. I remember this shop from past visits. It is four flights up through a narrow alley. Once there it is obvious this shop is selling pricy stuff. Shoes off at the door and onto clean white sheets. We sit on the floor on pillows while hundreds of exquisite saris are unfurled for our perusal. Smita loves this part of every trip. She and JP look, feel and discuss every one. One is finally chosen for each specific woman. Smita knows who would like what and what is appropriate. Al this, of course, is way over my head and I just sit there enjoying the show. There is no dust here and everything is polished to a high shine. Smita knew these guys well through her husband's work.

Wed. Jan. 20, 2010

Back to the train saga. After a huge rush to get to the train station, after a rushed sendoff by the whole family, we were told the train was 8 hours late, then that it was only 2 hours late, then that it had already arrived and left again. Who knew what the heck was going on. We decided to wait for a few hours to see what we could find out. In the past there were no information boards here, just one person to ask, and a huge long line waiting to ask them. Now modernization has arrived and there is no one to ask, just a crazy info board that kept changing. Ah, progress. The Delhi station is huge, and JP estimated there were about 1000 people there. I just stood there, observing. This was a microcosm of India itself: rich, poor, totally destitute, deformed, crazed. I watched as one woman in rags and bare feet (temp. 50) wandered back and forth, talking to herself. Was she a widow with no children ? Families everywhere were sitting on the floor eating. Others were sound asleep on the cold floor, oblivious of the cacophony around them. Indians are world class sleepers and can sleep anywhere, anytime. After several hours of this, Shashi, the can-do guy, arrived and things quickly changed. He disappeared in a flurry and about half an hour later rushed up to us telling us we were going to jump on a train leaving in 5 minutes. He had cleverly booked us on a train going to a station outside of Varanasi. It's been a long time since I had to run to catch a train, but run we did. We just barely made it. Shashi and Sunil literally threw our bags, and us, onto the train as it began moving. We got settled and were very grateful that we were finally on our way to Varanasi. The train perked along for all of about 10 minutes, then came to an abrupt stop. And there we sat for 3 hours. The dense fog was the problem, and it continued for the entire trip. The normally 12 hour journey took 20 hours. The big problem was food. The women had not had time to pack us the customary suitcase full of food, and for some reason this train did not have a pantry car. We also had not had a chance to eat lunch before we had left, due to the erroneous report of the train leaving on time. Boy, were we hungry, as were our fellow passengers, complaining to their wives by cell phone that they were hungry and dirty. God bless Arun, one of the Varanasi nephews. He had received a call from Shashi regarding our plight, and had arranged, through his work contacts, to have food delivered to us when the train stopped briefly at the Allahabad station. The poor delivery guy waited for almost two hours at the cold station, waiting for our train to arrive. Those darn boards again. The food was delicious, although by this time it was cold. I've never seen JP eat so much so quickly. We could not thank Arun enough when we finally arrived. We are blessed here to be so well taken care of by such clever people. I had mentioned to you beforehand that the continued fog had caused a terrible train accident several days before we boarded the train. It had been on the same track we were traveling and we passed one of the cars which was standing on end, bent in two, forming a gruesome V. By the by, the train system and the unifying language of English are two of the great gifts given to India by the British.

We were met at the station by Arun and Aradhana. Here is the Varanasi family lineup:

Jagdish, JP's brother died in 1999 because he could not get medical help on a Sunday.

Bhabi, his wife and grandmother of the family, now spends her time praying at various nearby temples and going to religious talks with her friends. In the home she is often found in front of the little house alter in the hall. She is a tiny woman, but still very pretty as old age comes upon her. She is several years older that I.

Anil is the oldest son in the house and is a dear, sweet man. Last month he collapsed while at home and was totally paralized on his left side. Luckily his brother, Arun, was also at home and managed somehow to get him on their motorscooter and to the hospital where he was able to get help. This happened on a Sunday, the same day of the week that their father had died from lack of help. The doctors helped him and, after 3 hours, feeling on his left side returned. He seems OK now, but all are still worried about him. He and his wife, Anita, have three daughters: Archana, Aradhana, and Anupria. Archana was married about 5 years ago. She was a little darker than her sisters so the family was worried about finding her a suitable husband. (I never even noticed the difference in color, but it is unfortunately a big deal with Indians). She has a master's degree in psychology and is energetic and hospitable. They did find her a very nice man (with the help of $ from JP for the dowery). The big problem was that she just could not get pregnant, or would miscarry. This was a very serious situation for her. Women here immediately have a child after marriage. Finally, with the help of a wonderful Varanasi doctor, she gave birth to a son about 6 months ago. A lot of prayers were said for the arrival of this child, not just in India, but in Taos, NM. The girls in Delhi and Varanasi tell us that Indian women are having more and more trouble getting pregnant. By the way, it is 11 AM here and still freezing cold. The electricity is off again, natch, so no little electric heater in our room. The light is being powered by a bank of batteries in the hallway. Aradhana is daughter # 2. She is 25, looks 14, and not yet married. The problem is that she is trying to obtain certification as a Chartered Accountant. JP says this is like our CPA certification, but much harder to achieve. If she can get this, she herself will be worth more, thus lowering the dowry, an able to get a higher class husband. She has been been trying to pass the final test for 2 years. She has passed most of the sections of the test but still has several to go. She has told her parents that if she does not get the degree in 6 months, they should get her married anyway. Although I am not an Indian mother, I share the worry about finding suitable husbands for these girls. I know the dowry system sounds arcane, but it actually makes sense. When a girl marries, the husband's family accepts responsibility for her and her children for life. Her dowry, which includes her gold bangles and earrings, is her only inheritance from her birth family, and given to the husband's family to help with the expense of caring for her and her children for life. I just love Aradhana. She is shorter than I and just about half the width. Like all the children in JP's family, she speaks good English. She also has a great sense of wry humor and usually is our companion when exploring Varanasi. For the last few months she has been working for Sensex, India's industrial index, like our Dow Jones, so does not have too much time for us during the day. Anupria is the youngest daughter and is a little spit fire. Jai loves her spirit. She is in Delhi right now, studying for the same degree as her sister. Anil's wife, Anita, is the workhorse of the family. She is always looking after our needs and making sure we are comfortable ( a relative term in this terribly cold weather). When we first got to the house, Anil and Anita were not there. Her 36 year old sister had died the day before after suffering for 6 months with liver cancer. Her body was immediately brought to Varanasi for cremation, probably on top of the car the family was riding in. The body, which would have been wrapped in clean white cloth and tied around the body, then would be taken to the main burning ghat. The men in the family would take the body to the Ganges' edge and ritualistically wash it. The body would then be placed over the wood pyre, ghee (clarified butter) poured over it, and lit by the eldest son. The women and children would already have been standing higher up the bluff on an ancient viewing platform, where the men would join them. Of course this is all done within the framework of specified puja (prayers). The family would stay there (in freezing cold in this case) until the body was completely consumed, the ashes gathered and placed into the sacred river. The whole family then bathes in the river, even though the time was about 11 PM and the temp. about 45.

Arun and Smita have two sons: Apoorva and Arpit. They are great, fun loving boys. Apoorva has finished college and is working for an American company in Pune, in computer safety. Arpit recently finished college and just got a job in Gurgaon in computer hardware technology. We just got news of the new job yesterday and are celebrating with the fancy sweet treats JP bought for the occasion. Indians are very fond of their sweets. I am so happy for this family. Arun, their father, earns about $300 monthly at his job in a clock manufacturing company. Now how does one send two boys to college while earning so little ? This is a good example of the Indian "can-do" attitude. Somehow they always manage to do what needs to be done. While I am happy for this family, I can see the eroding of the Indian way of life here. These boys will not come back to Varanasi with their wives and children. Rather, they will go where there careers take them. Smita, their mother, is another favorite. She is very personable and plump, like her husband and son Arpit. She loves to go shopping with us and makes sure we go to the best shops and get the best prices. Indians love to constantly dicker about price. It drives me, like most Americans, absolutely nuts.

Shyam Kasore's two daughters, Prabha and Chuma, and their families also live in Varanasi. Prabha is a Ph.D professor in Indian History and the mother of 3 very well educated children. Chuma had 3 children but tragedy struck about one year ago. Her son, Vivek, age 21, had been working in the distant city of Bangalore. He was a shy boy who did not have many friends there. A maid noticed that his apartment door was open and found him dead. He had been dead for several days and the police could never determine how he died. This is a cautionary tale for parents of children living away from home. Vivek's parents had no other phone numbers of people who could check on him. The police called the last number dialed on his phone, which was his parents. Otherwise, they would have not known whom to contact. JP has always made it a practice of having the phone numbers of employers and friends of kids living away from us.

There is a vigorous debate going on in my body regarding the efficacy of squat toilets. My digestive system in arguing for; my knees, against. As the days go on the knees appear to be winning. Enough for now. I am tired of typing and I am sure you are tired to reading.

Peace,

Nadine

Friday Jan. 15, 2010
Today I had appointments with a dentist and an allopathic doctor. The dentist's office was on the main road of Gurgaon. It looked like a shop in the worst part of Chicago. It was 6 feet by 20 feet long and divided into waiting room and work area. I was told this was his upscale office, as opposed to the one for less wealthy people. His partner is a woman with the same last name. I immediately fantasized a "love match" while in dental school. My fantasy was dashed when I was told they were brother and sister. Anywho, after 3 visits I ended up with a perfectly fitting cap over the tooth I had badly chipped. It cost $100 as apposed to $700 in the US. He was very proud of how good a job he had done. Then JP and I went off to the doctor. This was the nicest office of any type I had ever seen in India. On the wall were certificates from Johns Hopkins and Harvard. The doctor examined JP and was not at all convinced that his arthritis was rheumatoid. He then checked my blood pressure (my one enduring problem), prescribed medicine and off we went. He wants to see me again in about a month to see how the new drugs were working. Cost of visit, $12 each.
Driving in India is an exercise in blind faith. The comfort zone for Indian drivers is not measured in car lengths or feet, rather, in inches or fractions of inches. Although it appears to be totally chaotic, it is actually more like an intricately choreographed dance. As we drove to the dentist's office, we passed a group of 20 or so people, squatting by the road, many crying. Surbhi explained that the government had just torn down their illegally built shacks, and not they were totally homeless.

Sat. Jan 16
The doctor had ordered JP to have blood tests. Instead of going to a hospital for these tests, the tests come to you at your home. Nice. Since the sun had finally appeared today, everyone in the family was sitting outside, playing games and chatting with neighbors. All the housed are walled, with gardens inside the wall. Pretty much like Taos. I love these little gardens and am determined to create one at home. Everything here in India is smaller. From squirrels to servings of tea. Here, a small serving of tea is 2 oz., a large is 4 oz. JP and I have noticed over the years that American sizes have changed. 6 oz used to be a small, 12 oz a large. Now 12 oz. is small. The sizes of tea seem to be in a direct ratio to the sizes of us Americans, who have been supersized over the last 30 years.
The train to Varanasi was to leave at 8 PM on the 16th. However, the fog was terrible and the train was already 5 hours late. There was also a very bad train accident due to fog the day before, so the trains were going extra slow. Since we had alot of extra time, I decided to postpone a bath and take a long walk instead. After walking about a mile, we got a call from Shashi saying that now the train was on time and we had to leave ASAP. So, no time to bathe, change clothes, or for the women to prepare food for us to take. Off we went to the train station, only to have to wait for 2 hours to be told that the train was actually 8 hours late. The train station is a whole blog in itself but my legs can't stay curled under me for another minute, so I will continue later. By the way, when I read the blog after it has been posted, I noticed that some words or whole lines had morphed out of order. Don't know why.
It is almost midnight and there are sounds of loud drums and monks chanting coming from across the street. I find it soothing, not annoying.

Peace,
Nadine

I am now in the Varanasi household and have access to a computer, so I will try to catch you up.

The members of the Delhi household are as follows:

Shyam Kashore -JP's older brother and head of the household

Bhabhi (title for your older brother's wife)- S.K's wife, grandmother

Sushil S.K. oldest son

Sunana- Sushil's wife. She is the only daughter-in-law in the household and a workhorse. She is constantly cooking, cleaning, etc. Often signs as she works. They have two sons: Shashank and Amun. Shashank is a very ernest young man who, as elder son, works with his father in their retail cloth business. I've always been concerned about him because he strives so hard to do everything right. J.P. and I were both pleased to see he now seems more relaxed and confident. He has not yet married, but will have an arranged marriage in the next few years. Amun has always been a worry. As a little kid we never even saw his face because he would hide. On our trip 4 years ago we were convinced he was autistic. Now we are not so sure. At 21 he is still very shy and says little, but he will look us in the eye and smile. He helps his father a little in the store but I can't see how he could possibly relate to customers. Surbhi is the only girl in the family. She was married off while we were here 4 years ago. In a lucky turn of events, she and her husband, Mukesh, decided to rent the second floor apartment above her parents home. This is very unusual. Most couples live with the boy's parents. Surbhi appears to be very happy in her marriage and with their beautiful little 3 year old daughter, Anugya. They both have very good jobs and can afford their 16 year old nanny, Komal. Surbhi says that Komal is very intelligent and they have asked her parents to let her stay with them and that they would pay to educate her. Her parents refused the offer and intend to marry her off soon. Komal says she will run away if her parents try to do that. I try my best not to judge situations like this and just hope that whatever happens to her, she will be happy in life. She is so bright and lively and Anugya is very attached to her.

Benita, who is new to us, is a much sadder story. She is Sunann's younger sister, age 36, but looks much younger. She has been with the family for 4 years. She and her husband had had an argument and she went home to her parent's home. After some time, he came to take her back to his home, but she refused. He threatened to kill himself if she did not return. She did not believe him and still refused to return. He drank poison and died, leaving her a widow with no children. Her in-laws disowned her and she moved to her brother's home, as her father had died and he was now head of the household. Unfortunately, her brother's wife did not like her, and she was forced to leave that home. God bless J.P's family, who have assumed responsibility for her for the last 4 years. We noticed that, although she was always in the house, she did very little work. We later found out why. She has two holes in her heart, is very week, and is not expected to live a very long life. She refuses to take her medicine, saying she has no husband or children and life is not worth living. I noticed that Benita has no gold bangles or earings. This really upsets me. A woman's gold bangles and earrings is all she ever inherits from her family and is given to her at the time of her wedding. They are never to be taken from her are an insurance policy for her and her children. J.P.'s mother's bangles kept her and her children from starvation after his father died, leaving them destitute. When she had no money for food, his mother would take her bangles to the local pawn shop and get a little money. Later, when she got hold of a bit of money, she would retrieve the bangles. This is exactly what the bangles are for. Whoever took Benita's bangles and earrings took away her safety. Being a widow in India is a very perilous thing unless you have grown sons to care for you. There is no safety net here.

Shyam Kashore and Bhabi have another son, Shashi, who lives nearby. He is a whirl wind of activity and is our primary resource for just about everything. He will always figure out a way to do what needs to be done. He and his wife Uma have a very classy home in the same development as his father and mother. She is better educated that Sunanna and has the money to provide a lovely home for her family. Their eldest son is Saurab, who works with his father in their successful wholesale cloth business. When we were here last he was just married to Shivangi, who was newly pregnant. At that time she was a terrified young bride, missing her parents, and frightened of her new life with a man she really did not know. Such is the life of a new bride in this world of arranged marriages. She is now a happy wife and mother of a beautiful 4 year old son, Divyansah. The change was amazing and gratifying to see. Nidhi, Shashi and Uma's daughter, who's fairy tale wedding was described in the first chronicles, is now the mother of a 4 year old boy and lives in Pune, a city in the south. Nidhi is one of the most truly dignified people I have ever met. She is very intelligent, gracious, and graceful. She was married into a wealthy, educated family. I am sure they are pleased as punch with her.

Friday Jan. 15 was a partial eclipse of the sun, called Suryagrahan, when the sun is being s 11:30 AM towallowed by the deamon Rahu. The eclipse lasted for three and a half hours, beginning at 11:30AM. During that time you are not to bathe, eat, sleep, or clip your nails. I have no idea why. Afterwards you are to bathe in the river. I will ask my old friends, Bindu and Paramjit Singh, to fill in any info they have on events like this and to correct any misinformation I might give you.

As I sat in the sun outside the Delhi house, which is really in Gurgaon, I noticed 6 huge birds on the neighbor's roof. It took me a minute to realize they were peacocks. They actually belong to the neighborhood temple, but roam around during the day. They were huge, but I was told they were just babies.

I'm getting a headache from wearing my glasses for so long, so will close for now.

Peace,

Nadine

I've finally made it back to the internet cafe. Like everything here, it is barely working. If it fails, all will be well in several days. We will be leaving for Varanasi tonight by train, if it ever gets here. It is already 5 hours late. We will sleep on the train, always an adventure. The family there has a good computer which Jai brought them, so I will be able to blog to my heart's content.
As we walk to this internet cafe (which is not a cafe but several broken down computers and wobbly chairs) we pass by a fractal composit of India. We are greeted with a smile by the ironing man and his wife, who remember us from past trips. Their "shop" is a platform of bricks under a tree which serves as his ironing board. His iron is a huge metal thing filled with hot coals. His wife folds the ironed clothes, ready to be picked up by their clients. Next we pass the cart selling saffron rice. Then comes the man squatting on the sidewalk mending clothes by hand and the barber shaving a man with a long straight razor. Cars, trucks, motor scooters and rickshaws zip by honking horns, but the various mini industries are undisturbed. The front of the various small stores that actually have roofs are always adorned with loud, smelly generators. The electricity in India goes on and off constantly. The country simply cannot provide enough power for its growing population. It is not just a matter of new plants. The infrastructure and capacity of the electrical grids are totally decrepit. Another more serious problem is water. All the new building has put a strain on the water supply. The family house here has water delivered every 4 or 5 days. This water is not potable, so they must buy drinking water. The poor people have no choice but to drink the non-potable water. Surbhi says they have built up an immunity to the pollutants. I hope this is just not wishful thinking.
I have not seen another Westerner here, so I am a major source of interest. Indians are not shy about staring. I just look at them and smile, sometimes shocking them into smiling back. I also make it a point to wave at little children or give them a pat on the head. Mothers everywhere appreciate attention to their children. No matter how poor or dirty these kids are, their beauty shines through: beautiful creamed coffee skins and huge dark eyes.
The other computer in this establishment is not working so JP is getting antsy. I will continue more comfortably once we get to Varanansi.
Peace,
Nadine

Thur. Jan. 14 was Makar Sankranti, the winter solstice celebration. Some stores were closed for this holiday, others opened. JP says it is more seriously celebrated in Varanasi.

India Chronicals Part 2

India Chronicals Part 2
We left Albuquerque on Jan.13, flying to Newark, NJ, then on to a non-stop flight to Delhi.
First mistake: We did not weigh the suitcases after the final stuffing. Thus, when we checked them in Albu. one was 12 lbs overweight, which would have cost $125. While JP worked with the Delta folks, trying to get our bags booked all the way to India, I frantically took everything heavy out of JP's suitcase and stuffed it into my carryon.
Second mistake: One of the things I put into my carryon was a very heavy manilla envelope, without looking to see what was in it. JP's part of this mistake was to use a manilla envelope rather than a clear plastic zip lock bag.
When we went through security, I found out what was in the envelope. It contained 6 Swiss Army knives and a box cutter, which were to be presents for JP's family. Luckily, I do not appear to be a terrorist, and they bought my story.
Mistake 3: We did not arrive early enough at the airport to allow for screw ups, so did not have time to go back down and check in my carryon bag. So, the knives were confiscated.

The flight from Newark, NJ to Delhi was non-stop: 14 hours in a cramped seat. It was delayed 2 hours because someone had checked their suitcases but failed to board the plane. Very scary. So all bagage was removed, the missing person's bags found, and all other bags repacked.
We arrived at the new airport in Delhi at 11:30 PM. I love walking out of the airport into the Indian night. The smell of the tropics is an intoxicating assault. As usual, JP's nephew, Shashi, the go-to guy, was their to greet us, along with a taxi. The fog was unbelievable. How the driver saw the road, I don't understand. JP was nervous, but I have learned to trust Indian drivers. The amount of traffic here at midnight is about the same as rush hour in Taos.
Upon arrival at Shyam Kasore's home (JP's brother) the family was awake and greeted us with chai and snacks. After about an hour, we finally went to bed.
After many trips here, I am used to the very hard beds and squat toilets. What I never get used to is being in an unheated house when the ambient temperature is 45 degrees. The family takes pity on us and puts a rarely used electric heated in our bedroom.
This morning we had to bathe in the cold house. We do this by filling a five gallon bucket with hot water and have at it. The reason we have hot water in this bathroom is that 4 years ago JP bought a small water heater as a gift for the family. I've gotten very good at bathing in this manner and don't even use the full 5 gallons. I forgot that they do not use washclothes here so did not bring one. Rather, I have dedicated a pair of underpants for this use. The bathroom is attached to our bedroom, but is also accessable from the main part of the house and is used by many other family members . This means we have to lock the outside door when we want to use the bathroom, but not forget to unlock it after we are done.
I'll get the gross part over now and describe the toilet. It is basically a bowl in the floor with footpads on either side to show where you place your feet. I personally prefer this type of toilet as it is more natural for our bodies. They do not use toilet paper in India. Rather, there is always water available. They find it disgusting that we use paper on our bottoms. One of my proudest achievments is that I am very comfortable using their method. This took me 3 or 4 trips to India to accomplish this.
I am sending this from a cyber cafe in Gurgaon with no bathroom so enough for now.
Peace,
Nadine