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