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