Ok, so I had the chance to go back to the Golden Temple a second time, and on this occasion I went to a museum that is part of the complex just to check it out... grisly, morbid, and propagating in bloody martyrdom lore. Apparently the 'warrior' part of Sikhism is a more significant part of the culture than I thought. The entire 'museum' was essentially a depiction of the heroes and their acts against the Mughal, English, and Hindu 'oppressors'. Many portraits of honored men, bloody battle scenes glorifying valor, torture at the hands of their oppressors (boiled alive in water, sawn in half top to bottom, heads cut off), weapons of all sorts (swords, shields, daggers, muskets, modern artillery shells), and even bloody post-mortem photographs of 13 dead martyrs killed in the action by Indira Gandhi against the Sikh extremists in 1984. Really disgusting stuff seen as propaganda towards a Sikh identity by virtue of their 'oppression' by an 'outside' force.
I also went to another "must see" 'museum' in honor of "the One-Eyed Lion" of Punjab, Maharaja Ranjit Singh... the one who put the 'Gold' in the Golden Temple. This place was actually called a "Panorama" as it was a building in the round including paintings, 2/3 scale 3-d dioramas, and interactive touch-screen computer interfaces describing the brave and kind acts of this king and depicting his conquests throughout Punjab and now Pakistan. I couldn't take this place seriously and kept laughing at every display... mostly for the unbelievable slant to the information and the manner in which it was displayed... dioramas! There were painted backgrounds with 3-d model figures in the fore showing battle and court scenes, with a sense of perspective derived from the receding figures made smaller... which when juxtaposed next to each other as they were made the effect of some looking like ridiculous giants. The written descriptions of the diorama scenes were on a plaque in front of the display, along with a picture of the display itself that was right in front of you! "Maharaja Ranjit Singh was a humane conqueror who showered kindness not only on his subjects but to his foes as well." The Panorama displays depicting the 6 major battles won since the Maharaja began his conquests at 18 were accompanied by a battle 'soundtrack' just to help make the mood and convey a sense of "being there". A fire caused by cannon fire upon a besieged fort was enhanced by a flickering light bulb just behind the painted wallpaper. "Sher Singh was the reported son of the Maharaja from Rahni Mohtab Kaur, his first wife. He was not only a fine manly-looking fellow, but also an extremely polite, amiable, very intelligent, good-natured and straightforward man."
Clearly museums have a slightly different manifestation here in India... although perhaps I prefer the outright obviousness of the propaganda displayed here in contrast to the more subtle manipulations you find in western museums and academia where the information is controlled through the curatorial and editing processes and is put forward as absolute rather than subjective to the perspective of the stronger socio-political entity.
Tuesday, October 23
Monday, October 22
Pool of Nectar
Amrit Sarovar--Pool of Nectar--sacred pool in which the Golden Temple sits.
I'm now in Amritsar visiting the Golden Temple and to see the border crossing pageantry between India and Pakistan tonight before catching a train to Jaipur tomorrow night.
I was visiting the Golden Temple yesterday afternoon when a young man with a woman and child came up to me to shake my hand. I seem to get a lot of smiles and handshakes throughout India. The man was very nice and spoke a little English and so I shook his hand and that of the woman and the child. A bit later on in walking the circuit around the temple I came across them again and so we spoke further as we walked. He gave me his name (Karen) and his email address so I could contact him. He also invited me for tea at his family home just outside Amritsar but I felt I didn't have enough time so I declined.
As we (I was with Lynne, the quieter of the two English ladies I'm here with) walked around there were groups of volunteers in a bucket brigade of sorts taking water from the central healing pool and passed up the steps to wash the surrounding marble walk. The brigade moved swiftly around the entire perimeter washing down the surface. A leper was cured at the pool several hundred years ago and it is said that bathing in the pool will cure all ails, mental as well as physical, and that the book of songs will solve all problems. You have to take your shoes off inside the temple complex and there's a place where you can check your shoes just like checking a bag at a museum. You also have to wash your feet before entering and there are faucets as well as shallow troughs of water cut across all paths into the complex which you walk into and out of.
Lynne and I walked around inside this incredibly opulent literally golden temple with birds and flowers set in white marble around the base... a mixture of Hindu and Muslim architecture. The inside is painted with all sorts of richly red and gold and green ornate natural decorations and there's a large crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling in the middle of a two story atrium. At the entry level in the center of the atrium space there is a group of four or so priests singing the songs written down in the Sikh holy book and accompanied by a tabla player and a harmonium. The sounds were really beautiful and they are broadcast by loudspeaker around the entire temple complex. The chanting is also played live over the Internet and you should be able to listen in by going to the following link... http://www.sgpc.net/
I think they are also supposed to have live video feed, but I couldn't find it with my slow India Internet connection. There were times even in the line to get in when people around me would join in the chanting... I was actually a bit overwhelmed emotionally from this place and the niceness of the people and their smiles and the music and the visual splendor.
Inside the temple on the roof garden we once again ran into Karen with the woman and young boy. They were sitting down and invited us to join them. I found out that Karen worked for Airtel (the Indian cell company), the woman was his sister Rachan, and the child (3) was their nephew Iemaan. Rachan is getting her degree and will go to work in a medical clinic next year. She is also engaged to be married (arranged) in February and they invited me to the wedding! We took some photos and I will try to post them if I can get a decent connection.
Karen then invited us to come have food with them at the temple kitchen which provides a free meal by volunteers 24/7 to anyone who wants. The temple access is also free and the only stipulation is that you cover your head (they provide free orange - Sikh color - head scarves). As we walked to the cafeteria Karen took us on a tour of the complex and proudly explained his religion and described the acts and monuments to the 10 Guru's of Sikhism (also explained somewhat on the website). The Sikh's are peaceful loving people but also warriors and their symbol is a cross of swords. There are a few "warriors" walking around the temple dressed in orange robes with blue head wraps and swords.
During the early 1980's the Golden Temple was occupied by extremists intent on creating an independent Sikh homeland, by violence if necessary. On the orders of then-prime minister Indira Gandhi, they were finally evicted by the army in 1984 in a controversial military action that resulted in hundreds of Sikh deaths and widespread damage to the temple. Later that year Indira Gandhi was assassinated by her Sikh bodyguards.
From Wikipedia: "Their followers, with their turban and uncut hair, are proud and definitely distinct; yet show respect to the followers of other religions. Non-Sikhs can partake fully in Sikh prayer meetings and social functions. Their daily prayers include the well being of whole mankind. The concept of saint-soldier is another unique feature which sometimes confuses observers. Every Sikh is required to aspire to sainthood by his devotion to God and service to mankind, but also, according to the situation, to adopt the role of the soldier. Sikhs are not required to renounce the world, and aspire to be the best but not be obsessed by the act, wanting the best but not craving to accumulate. Seva (service) is an integral part of Sikh worship. This is very easily observed in the Gurdwara (temple). Visitors of any religious or socio-economic background are welcomed. Langar (free food for all) is always served."
In walking around the complex on the way to the cafeteria, Karen invited us to eat some of the "holy" food which was a mixture of semolina flower and sugar and water in a paste that is very sweet and light... the little boy loved it. We saw a 600 year old plum tree held up by a steel support structure, and a several thousand year old mango tree root wrapped in cloth said to be the tree where the original Guru Nanak sat to meditate (not unlike the Buddha).
The cafeteria serves a simple meal of flat bread, spicy lentils, and a sweet mixture of sugar, water, and grain that tasted like tapioca pudding. They also offer a bowl of water to drink which I was reluctant to have but did so on encouragement from Karen without wanting to offend (so far I feel great... perhaps I have been cured by the holy water). Everyone sits on the floor on strips of canvas in long rows inside a vast hall and we took some more photos together.
After eating we walked outside and Karen, Rachan, and Iemaan said goodbye as the boy was tired and they were headed home. Karen gave me his phone number and his email and said to please call him for anything within the state of Punjab. I've been meeting some truly beautiful people who are very generous and kind. Clearly a smile goes a long way.
I'm now in Amritsar visiting the Golden Temple and to see the border crossing pageantry between India and Pakistan tonight before catching a train to Jaipur tomorrow night.
I was visiting the Golden Temple yesterday afternoon when a young man with a woman and child came up to me to shake my hand. I seem to get a lot of smiles and handshakes throughout India. The man was very nice and spoke a little English and so I shook his hand and that of the woman and the child. A bit later on in walking the circuit around the temple I came across them again and so we spoke further as we walked. He gave me his name (Karen) and his email address so I could contact him. He also invited me for tea at his family home just outside Amritsar but I felt I didn't have enough time so I declined.
As we (I was with Lynne, the quieter of the two English ladies I'm here with) walked around there were groups of volunteers in a bucket brigade of sorts taking water from the central healing pool and passed up the steps to wash the surrounding marble walk. The brigade moved swiftly around the entire perimeter washing down the surface. A leper was cured at the pool several hundred years ago and it is said that bathing in the pool will cure all ails, mental as well as physical, and that the book of songs will solve all problems. You have to take your shoes off inside the temple complex and there's a place where you can check your shoes just like checking a bag at a museum. You also have to wash your feet before entering and there are faucets as well as shallow troughs of water cut across all paths into the complex which you walk into and out of.
Lynne and I walked around inside this incredibly opulent literally golden temple with birds and flowers set in white marble around the base... a mixture of Hindu and Muslim architecture. The inside is painted with all sorts of richly red and gold and green ornate natural decorations and there's a large crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling in the middle of a two story atrium. At the entry level in the center of the atrium space there is a group of four or so priests singing the songs written down in the Sikh holy book and accompanied by a tabla player and a harmonium. The sounds were really beautiful and they are broadcast by loudspeaker around the entire temple complex. The chanting is also played live over the Internet and you should be able to listen in by going to the following link... http://www.sgpc.net/
I think they are also supposed to have live video feed, but I couldn't find it with my slow India Internet connection. There were times even in the line to get in when people around me would join in the chanting... I was actually a bit overwhelmed emotionally from this place and the niceness of the people and their smiles and the music and the visual splendor.
Inside the temple on the roof garden we once again ran into Karen with the woman and young boy. They were sitting down and invited us to join them. I found out that Karen worked for Airtel (the Indian cell company), the woman was his sister Rachan, and the child (3) was their nephew Iemaan. Rachan is getting her degree and will go to work in a medical clinic next year. She is also engaged to be married (arranged) in February and they invited me to the wedding! We took some photos and I will try to post them if I can get a decent connection.
Karen then invited us to come have food with them at the temple kitchen which provides a free meal by volunteers 24/7 to anyone who wants. The temple access is also free and the only stipulation is that you cover your head (they provide free orange - Sikh color - head scarves). As we walked to the cafeteria Karen took us on a tour of the complex and proudly explained his religion and described the acts and monuments to the 10 Guru's of Sikhism (also explained somewhat on the website). The Sikh's are peaceful loving people but also warriors and their symbol is a cross of swords. There are a few "warriors" walking around the temple dressed in orange robes with blue head wraps and swords.
During the early 1980's the Golden Temple was occupied by extremists intent on creating an independent Sikh homeland, by violence if necessary. On the orders of then-prime minister Indira Gandhi, they were finally evicted by the army in 1984 in a controversial military action that resulted in hundreds of Sikh deaths and widespread damage to the temple. Later that year Indira Gandhi was assassinated by her Sikh bodyguards.
From Wikipedia: "Their followers, with their turban and uncut hair, are proud and definitely distinct; yet show respect to the followers of other religions. Non-Sikhs can partake fully in Sikh prayer meetings and social functions. Their daily prayers include the well being of whole mankind. The concept of saint-soldier is another unique feature which sometimes confuses observers. Every Sikh is required to aspire to sainthood by his devotion to God and service to mankind, but also, according to the situation, to adopt the role of the soldier. Sikhs are not required to renounce the world, and aspire to be the best but not be obsessed by the act, wanting the best but not craving to accumulate. Seva (service) is an integral part of Sikh worship. This is very easily observed in the Gurdwara (temple). Visitors of any religious or socio-economic background are welcomed. Langar (free food for all) is always served."
In walking around the complex on the way to the cafeteria, Karen invited us to eat some of the "holy" food which was a mixture of semolina flower and sugar and water in a paste that is very sweet and light... the little boy loved it. We saw a 600 year old plum tree held up by a steel support structure, and a several thousand year old mango tree root wrapped in cloth said to be the tree where the original Guru Nanak sat to meditate (not unlike the Buddha).
The cafeteria serves a simple meal of flat bread, spicy lentils, and a sweet mixture of sugar, water, and grain that tasted like tapioca pudding. They also offer a bowl of water to drink which I was reluctant to have but did so on encouragement from Karen without wanting to offend (so far I feel great... perhaps I have been cured by the holy water). Everyone sits on the floor on strips of canvas in long rows inside a vast hall and we took some more photos together.
After eating we walked outside and Karen, Rachan, and Iemaan said goodbye as the boy was tired and they were headed home. Karen gave me his phone number and his email and said to please call him for anything within the state of Punjab. I've been meeting some truly beautiful people who are very generous and kind. Clearly a smile goes a long way.
Friday, October 19
mountain pony man
I came to love Kashmir despite the initial deception and doubt. The area has been set back 20 years because of the fighting, and the local people are desperate for a return of tourism and the money it brings. I can't really hold their agressive tactics against them, as I really believe that for them it's a matter of survival... it's business, nothing personal, and not a matter of morality or decency.
The last couple of days in Kashmir were really amazing... trekking in the mountains near Sonamarg and seeing the countryside. Sonamarg means "Meadow of Gold" and sits in the cleft of a wooded valley with mountains in the background. Kashmir is proclaimed by the locals as "Paradise on Earth" (which is apparently why everyone is fighting for it) and I can see why... it is truely magnificent despite a heavy military presence. Actually, Sonamarg is also home to Kashmir's largest Indian military base... we weren't allowed to photograph the military for fear of arrest. The conflict was never far from my thoughts... I'd see trucks on the road carrying soldiers, and soldiers stationed in the hills overlooking the roads. There was one morning where I was looking at the sky and fighter jets flew over on patrol. As well, while we were trekking we heard a loud explosion and we all got a little worried until we realised it was just some blasting down the valley to make way for a new road.
The people were just so kind and their faces are full of character... beautiful and full of humanity, their lives written on their faces. Their daily existence is so hard that everyone looks older than I'm sure they are, especially the women. The men work hard, but I think the women work even harder... gathering wood and harvesting and taking care of the children... there were children everywhere.
I led some mountain ponies across the terrain with the guide (he said i was a "kashmiri mountain pony man", although really all I was doing was holding their reigns and making giddiup noises to keep them moving) and the two funny and charming late middle aged English women (one is now an Aussie) ladies I'm now sharing cars with through Rajasthan (Liz and Lynn) alternated between riding and walking. I even got on a pony for a photo (I got on the one that had previously tried to kick me). We had a huge fire at night and I slept in a tent with three other Kashmiri men (actually I didn't really sleep because the ground was too uneven). The camp was alongside a river of the most amazing turqoise blue and sweet tasting water. I couldn't figure out how it got that color until the next day treking through the hills I saw that many of the local rocks had the same color. The water was really lovely, except that everyone went to the bathroom right along the edge and so it was a mine field of poop. And for some reason the guides threw a bunch of garbage down the edge and some of it was strewn about. They're just not as environmentally aware, although there is a sign from the government banning plastic in that area... but that didn't stop the guides from burning the plastic items they had brought rather than return with it.
I saw some amazing country with the river valley all washed out from the spring floods and with only the vast stretches of rocks strewn about indicating the power and extent of the water that had passed through. We saw apple orchards and walnut trees and a trout fishery and trees stuffed full of hay for the coming winter (they put the hay high up in the trees so the animals won't get to it and so that they can find it once the snow reaches 10 feet up in winter). It was autumn there, so the leaves had turned beautiful yellows and oranges and a few reds. The whole valley was covered with terrace farming already barren for the winter aside from some last minute potatoes.
On one of our treks we stopped for tea at a little refreshment hut set up for tourists (we were in a bit of a national park and so there were a few Indian tourists) and I was sitting inside the tent when a Kashmiri man started talking to me in their dialect. I kind of looked at him blankly thinking he was talking to our guide sitting on the other side of me but it turned out he had actually mistaken me for a Kashmiri man! We talked for a bit about what he did and where he was from (Srinagar) and about what I did and where I was from, and when it was time for me to leave he stepped outside the tent holding my hand and shook it for a long time. He struggled with the right words, but he said that our meeting was very auspicious and he wished me well, as I him.
After the two days of trekking in the mountains we left early the following morning for Dharamsala, a 14 hour drive out of the Kashmir valley and over the most sublime terrain... beautiful and really frightening at the same time. Think CA US1 between Carmel and SF but times 10 and with NO safety built in... no guardrails, freight trucks everywhere on the road, everyone passing in the on-coming lane around blind switchback curves. I really thought we were going over the edge a few times (I was surprised at how few accidents we saw... two) but we had a great driver who did the whole thing straight with only a couple of quick stops. We made it just fine though and now I'm hanging with the monks in the high hills of Dharamsala.
I think I made a good first impression
On the afternoon of Eid Al-Fitr after my lunch with Bashir's family I was invited to take a boat ride across Nageen lake with Shakeel, one of the local guides working for Bashir, to meet his family where upon I made a spectacular impression. We took a shikara (gondola) ride out across the lake (and by "ride" I mean that I paddled... good exercise he says) and over to a semi-island where his family house is located. I navigated the boat poorly, meandering side to side and constantly switching sides with my stroke in order to maintain some semblance of a trajectory, while Shakeel talked on his cell phone. We hopped out on the other side, tied up the boat, and took short walk down a small dirt path to where his family's red brick and corrugated metal roof house sat among similar on semi-stable ground.
We left our foot ware (me in flip flops because my other sandals had chewed up my big toes) on the concrete steps outside and he introduced me to his wife Zamrooda and one daughter Hadisa (13) on the porch outside [as a side note: ages given here are approximate as no one seems to know (or care) how old they are or the ages of their children]. Inside, we passed through the kitchen (a sunken tiled area with a small wood fire going), the TV room (thin blue Styrofoam sheet padding as carpet on concrete floor, no furniture necessary, TV), and into a carpeted living area where I met his mother, sister and her baby (8 mo), a young man (20) visiting the family, and an older gentleman (70) in Muslim skull cap and robe. I sat quietly on the floor and was served Kashmiri tea (green tea with cardamom and cinnamon and granular sugar added) along with cookies that looked as if they could have come from any gourmet pastry shop. The older man spoke profusely for a long time and I learned from Shakeel that he was a match-maker who had been asked by a local man to discuss a marriage proposal for his sister. I listened to the Kashmiri dialect not understanding, looking at everyone around me and smiling a lot, and enjoyed my tea.
After a while the match-maker got up to leave and said goodbye to everyone... I have no idea what the outcome of any arrangement was. Shakeel's youngest boy Adial (9) came into the room and sat next to his father and me looking shyly at me from a bowed head. His father introduced us and he shook my hand smiling. The family chatted while I sipped tea and was plied with cookies... no one else ate any cookies except the baby kept trying to reach for them and was always pulled away at the last minute. All of the women kept stealing glances at me and would smile when I caught them looking. I would look directly back at them smile a big smile. Kashmiri women are truly beautiful, with black, dark caramel skin, and with deeply dark brown or even sometimes intense blue eyes. They smile big and their eyes twinkle. Their features, as with all Kashmiri, seem more Aryan and central Asian than Indian. I'm pretty sure they were all talking about me with an occasional comment. The mother asked me in more gesture than words if I had a mother, a father, and how many brothers and sisters I had.
The little baby was constantly passed around among the family, sometimes a bit roughly and by one arm, but he was mostly happy and was never without attention. I played with him off and on for a while and he would give me big smiles and wide dark brown eyes. The baby was dressed in a little dark green suite of pants and jacket that looked almost military with a few layers underneath. A beautiful youngish early teenage girl (15) strode into the room and said "Hello" to me very directly and asked my name. She shook my hand and in response to my asking her name said "Rafia", joining the group of about 10. The son Adial went out of the room and came back with a small pack of Spiderman trading cards, sitting on my other side and inspecting the box intently. He noticed my watch and said that he liked it. I thanked him and asked him about his cards which he showed me. He had seen the movie and liked it very much. I turned back to the group, smiling and sipping tea, content to just be welcomed in their home, and I felt a hand on my arm. Adial had reached over to feel my bicep muscle and he made a comment about it being big. I laughed and gave his arm a squeeze and indicated that his felt big as well. Rafia offered me a little almond sticky bun with silver flakes on top... delicious. I thanked her for the treat and looking at me she said that I had a beautiful smile, for which I thanked her by smiling even bigger.
After a couple of hours of smiling and nodding and sipping tea and eating cookies, Shakeel took me to his uncle's shop to look at his hand made papier mache crafts (another of Kasmir's local crafts). The older gentleman made beautiful little boxes, coasters, lamps, bowls, trays, and small animals in hand painted papier mache and of which I was more than happy to buy a small box. Rafia escorted me back to the house and a few neighboring women chatted as we passed and gave me smiles. Shakeel then took me on a walk to see the village area that was actually on the main land to which their island had recently been connected via a shaky wood foot bridge just within the past year. We met a few gentlemen at a shop who, along with a gathering of children who were setting off firecrackers, asked me to take a picture of them and send it to Shakeel. We returned to the house and, after one more cup of tea (a salty Kashmiri milk tea... they call sweet milk tea "English" tea) and goodbye's, Shakeel and I headed to the boat to go back to the houseboat.
The afternoon had passed and now it was getting a dark and a little windy. We started off paddling but Shakeel felt it would be too difficult so we turned back to shore to take an auto-rickshaw from the village on the main land. As he tied up the boat I got out and, taking a step in the wrong direction, discovered that the ground was not solid and was instead a delightful pit of mud covered by a deceptive layer of green weeds into which I sank up to my waist! I hauled myself out, forever loosing a flip flop to the mud, as Shakeel helped take my filthy bag holding my camera, phone, guide book, etc. He was obviously very concerned for me, but I think also for what would happen to him as his guest had just befallen very bad luck. We walked back to his house, me laughing the whole way with embarrassement and returning, after a brief moment of concern, his family also found the whole thing hilarious... they laughed at me with much glee.
I stripped to my underwear on the porch of his house, whereupon the wind apparently crossed two wires near the footbridge and shorted out the power for his island... the mother started lighting matches next to me so I could try to see where the mud was to wash off. I managed to wash most of myself off using the faucet next to the outhouse, and changed into the red/orange/yellow stripped rugby shirt and khaki pants they provided for me. I started to wash my clothes but Rafia took them from me saying she would take care of it (everything in my bag was fine as the mud was to thick to penetrate the fabric). His mother tried to warm my hand by holding it over a flame, and another woman decided that putting my hand in a pot of still hot ashes would be the way to heat me up. With many apologies and laughing I said goodbye a second time and Shakeel and I headed for the village to catch a ride back to the boat house.
I think the whole village is still laughing about it. Ahh... humility.
We left our foot ware (me in flip flops because my other sandals had chewed up my big toes) on the concrete steps outside and he introduced me to his wife Zamrooda and one daughter Hadisa (13) on the porch outside [as a side note: ages given here are approximate as no one seems to know (or care) how old they are or the ages of their children]. Inside, we passed through the kitchen (a sunken tiled area with a small wood fire going), the TV room (thin blue Styrofoam sheet padding as carpet on concrete floor, no furniture necessary, TV), and into a carpeted living area where I met his mother, sister and her baby (8 mo), a young man (20) visiting the family, and an older gentleman (70) in Muslim skull cap and robe. I sat quietly on the floor and was served Kashmiri tea (green tea with cardamom and cinnamon and granular sugar added) along with cookies that looked as if they could have come from any gourmet pastry shop. The older man spoke profusely for a long time and I learned from Shakeel that he was a match-maker who had been asked by a local man to discuss a marriage proposal for his sister. I listened to the Kashmiri dialect not understanding, looking at everyone around me and smiling a lot, and enjoyed my tea.
After a while the match-maker got up to leave and said goodbye to everyone... I have no idea what the outcome of any arrangement was. Shakeel's youngest boy Adial (9) came into the room and sat next to his father and me looking shyly at me from a bowed head. His father introduced us and he shook my hand smiling. The family chatted while I sipped tea and was plied with cookies... no one else ate any cookies except the baby kept trying to reach for them and was always pulled away at the last minute. All of the women kept stealing glances at me and would smile when I caught them looking. I would look directly back at them smile a big smile. Kashmiri women are truly beautiful, with black, dark caramel skin, and with deeply dark brown or even sometimes intense blue eyes. They smile big and their eyes twinkle. Their features, as with all Kashmiri, seem more Aryan and central Asian than Indian. I'm pretty sure they were all talking about me with an occasional comment. The mother asked me in more gesture than words if I had a mother, a father, and how many brothers and sisters I had.
The little baby was constantly passed around among the family, sometimes a bit roughly and by one arm, but he was mostly happy and was never without attention. I played with him off and on for a while and he would give me big smiles and wide dark brown eyes. The baby was dressed in a little dark green suite of pants and jacket that looked almost military with a few layers underneath. A beautiful youngish early teenage girl (15) strode into the room and said "Hello" to me very directly and asked my name. She shook my hand and in response to my asking her name said "Rafia", joining the group of about 10. The son Adial went out of the room and came back with a small pack of Spiderman trading cards, sitting on my other side and inspecting the box intently. He noticed my watch and said that he liked it. I thanked him and asked him about his cards which he showed me. He had seen the movie and liked it very much. I turned back to the group, smiling and sipping tea, content to just be welcomed in their home, and I felt a hand on my arm. Adial had reached over to feel my bicep muscle and he made a comment about it being big. I laughed and gave his arm a squeeze and indicated that his felt big as well. Rafia offered me a little almond sticky bun with silver flakes on top... delicious. I thanked her for the treat and looking at me she said that I had a beautiful smile, for which I thanked her by smiling even bigger.
After a couple of hours of smiling and nodding and sipping tea and eating cookies, Shakeel took me to his uncle's shop to look at his hand made papier mache crafts (another of Kasmir's local crafts). The older gentleman made beautiful little boxes, coasters, lamps, bowls, trays, and small animals in hand painted papier mache and of which I was more than happy to buy a small box. Rafia escorted me back to the house and a few neighboring women chatted as we passed and gave me smiles. Shakeel then took me on a walk to see the village area that was actually on the main land to which their island had recently been connected via a shaky wood foot bridge just within the past year. We met a few gentlemen at a shop who, along with a gathering of children who were setting off firecrackers, asked me to take a picture of them and send it to Shakeel. We returned to the house and, after one more cup of tea (a salty Kashmiri milk tea... they call sweet milk tea "English" tea) and goodbye's, Shakeel and I headed to the boat to go back to the houseboat.
The afternoon had passed and now it was getting a dark and a little windy. We started off paddling but Shakeel felt it would be too difficult so we turned back to shore to take an auto-rickshaw from the village on the main land. As he tied up the boat I got out and, taking a step in the wrong direction, discovered that the ground was not solid and was instead a delightful pit of mud covered by a deceptive layer of green weeds into which I sank up to my waist! I hauled myself out, forever loosing a flip flop to the mud, as Shakeel helped take my filthy bag holding my camera, phone, guide book, etc. He was obviously very concerned for me, but I think also for what would happen to him as his guest had just befallen very bad luck. We walked back to his house, me laughing the whole way with embarrassement and returning, after a brief moment of concern, his family also found the whole thing hilarious... they laughed at me with much glee.
I stripped to my underwear on the porch of his house, whereupon the wind apparently crossed two wires near the footbridge and shorted out the power for his island... the mother started lighting matches next to me so I could try to see where the mud was to wash off. I managed to wash most of myself off using the faucet next to the outhouse, and changed into the red/orange/yellow stripped rugby shirt and khaki pants they provided for me. I started to wash my clothes but Rafia took them from me saying she would take care of it (everything in my bag was fine as the mud was to thick to penetrate the fabric). His mother tried to warm my hand by holding it over a flame, and another woman decided that putting my hand in a pot of still hot ashes would be the way to heat me up. With many apologies and laughing I said goodbye a second time and Shakeel and I headed for the village to catch a ride back to the boat house.
I think the whole village is still laughing about it. Ahh... humility.
Monday, October 15
House of Bashir
Bashir is the owner of the house boat on which I'm staying, as well as being a local hotel proprietor, a touring and trekking business owner covering much of north-western India, and generally a man about town who seems to know everyone in Kashmir including local high government officials (although his hotel never seems to have anyone staying and it seems more both a hang-out for his men and a front for the local Kashmiri mafia). I was dubious about the entire situation of my coming to Kashmir because of the manner in which the recommendation came and what I subsequently learned about trapping tactics, but actually I found most of my experiences here to be positive and Bashir seems a relatively honest and generous business man. I'm actually using the computer in his hotel office right now because he says it's more convenient than the internet shops.
Yesterday was the Eid Al-Fitr holiday and Bashir invited me to celebrate the end of Ramadan by having a traditional lunch with his family at their house, which I gratefully accepted. Shakeel, one of his men, escorted me on a local bus from the houseboat to a square a few miles down the road, where he waited with me until a boy picked me up in his car to take me to their house. I'd been to the house before and met most of his family for an evening meal a couple days prior, but this was more of a traditional meal.
When I arrived Bashir took me into the living room where a runner of yellow fabric had been laid on the pinky-green carpet with a scattering of pillows (no furniture, everyone sits on the floor) and oriented towards the TV at one end in a floor to ceiling dark brown wood laminate cabinet with some of the laminate peeling away and missing in a spot. A cricket match between the visiting Australians and the Indian team was playing and apparently was to be the equivalent of football games during Thanksgiving. Bashir explained cricket to me in a very simplified way, and I caught a few of the basics, but there were so many other apparent complexities that there was no way I'd be able to learn in this lifetime. Bashir also told me that Kasmiri's cheer Pakistan first and any team except India second... so he was rooting for Australia. Cricket seems to be a national obsession... the boys are constantly playing in the fields and streets wherever I look.
Bashir's 4 year old son meandered in with his drunken little walk due to a slight limp, being helpful carrying a serving bowl clutched between his right hand and his left arm (he favors the right as his left arm is slightly impaired) and looked at me with his little cross eyes (he usually wears thick glasses) while singing his ABC's (he and I had counted numbers, said the abc's, and repeated a few basic greetings in English on our first meeting a few days ago). I believe he has minor Cerebral Palsy, and he is the sweetest little boy... Bashir dotes on him constantly and sometimes lets him sit in his lap while he drives and navigates the crazy traffic.
The boy who picked me up in the car earlier walked in with a pitcher of water and a large chalice and set the chalice on front of Bashir who reached out his right hand and washed it as the boy poured the water. I followed suit. The food was brought in by the women and a few other relatives joined us, Bashir's mother sitting opposite me at the far end of the runner away from the TV. Each person had a large raised silverish bowl of rice and the common bowls of vegetables and meat were passed around. As most of the food was lamb and chicken, a few vegetarian dishes had been prepared for me including spiced cauliflower, cabbage, and a hot radish dish. Serving utensils were used only for taking from the common bowls and we ate from our own, mixing a clump of rice with a small piece of whatever,and using only our right hand, no napkins. After finishing lunch, the water pitcher and chalice was brought back in and we washed the right hand in the same manner as before, using only the right to wash itself.
The room cleared after lunch except for Bashir and myself and his boy wandering in and out helping to clear and seeking his dad's attention while he was on his cell. The driver boy also came into the room and his cell rang with the tune of Akon's "Smack That" (smack that, all on the floor, smack that, give me some more, smack that, 'till you get sore smack that, oooh). The Kashmiri seem to use cell phones constantly... Bashir has at least three that he has on rotation. I looked around the room to take in more of my surroundings and I noticed a display cabinet partly built into the middle of the long wall with the same dark brown wood laminate framing and with sliding plexiglas doors. The cabinet contained an assortment of photographs of babies, a few of Bashir with important official looking people, plastic flowers (there was also a bright blue side table across the room with a small pot of fake glaringly yellow flowers on top), various plastic farm animals including a cow, a sheep, and a horse, and then also a strange chrome trophy in the shape of two flowers with the words "love" written on it and with the flower buds appearing as if they were soft marshmallow candies in bright red and blue and coated with sugary sparkles. I heard a strange electronic buzzing ring behind me and I looked up to find a bizarre chunky white plastic cuckoo clock on the wall above my head with a pair of small spinning chromed plastic "windmills" set into niches on the plastic face and as well, at the top in it's own niche, a spinning chromed plastic robot, all chiming the hour in a synthesized whirr.
My ride came and I was headed back to the houseboat for a nap.
Yesterday was the Eid Al-Fitr holiday and Bashir invited me to celebrate the end of Ramadan by having a traditional lunch with his family at their house, which I gratefully accepted. Shakeel, one of his men, escorted me on a local bus from the houseboat to a square a few miles down the road, where he waited with me until a boy picked me up in his car to take me to their house. I'd been to the house before and met most of his family for an evening meal a couple days prior, but this was more of a traditional meal.
When I arrived Bashir took me into the living room where a runner of yellow fabric had been laid on the pinky-green carpet with a scattering of pillows (no furniture, everyone sits on the floor) and oriented towards the TV at one end in a floor to ceiling dark brown wood laminate cabinet with some of the laminate peeling away and missing in a spot. A cricket match between the visiting Australians and the Indian team was playing and apparently was to be the equivalent of football games during Thanksgiving. Bashir explained cricket to me in a very simplified way, and I caught a few of the basics, but there were so many other apparent complexities that there was no way I'd be able to learn in this lifetime. Bashir also told me that Kasmiri's cheer Pakistan first and any team except India second... so he was rooting for Australia. Cricket seems to be a national obsession... the boys are constantly playing in the fields and streets wherever I look.
Bashir's 4 year old son meandered in with his drunken little walk due to a slight limp, being helpful carrying a serving bowl clutched between his right hand and his left arm (he favors the right as his left arm is slightly impaired) and looked at me with his little cross eyes (he usually wears thick glasses) while singing his ABC's (he and I had counted numbers, said the abc's, and repeated a few basic greetings in English on our first meeting a few days ago). I believe he has minor Cerebral Palsy, and he is the sweetest little boy... Bashir dotes on him constantly and sometimes lets him sit in his lap while he drives and navigates the crazy traffic.
The boy who picked me up in the car earlier walked in with a pitcher of water and a large chalice and set the chalice on front of Bashir who reached out his right hand and washed it as the boy poured the water. I followed suit. The food was brought in by the women and a few other relatives joined us, Bashir's mother sitting opposite me at the far end of the runner away from the TV. Each person had a large raised silverish bowl of rice and the common bowls of vegetables and meat were passed around. As most of the food was lamb and chicken, a few vegetarian dishes had been prepared for me including spiced cauliflower, cabbage, and a hot radish dish. Serving utensils were used only for taking from the common bowls and we ate from our own, mixing a clump of rice with a small piece of whatever,and using only our right hand, no napkins. After finishing lunch, the water pitcher and chalice was brought back in and we washed the right hand in the same manner as before, using only the right to wash itself.
The room cleared after lunch except for Bashir and myself and his boy wandering in and out helping to clear and seeking his dad's attention while he was on his cell. The driver boy also came into the room and his cell rang with the tune of Akon's "Smack That" (smack that, all on the floor, smack that, give me some more, smack that, 'till you get sore smack that, oooh). The Kashmiri seem to use cell phones constantly... Bashir has at least three that he has on rotation. I looked around the room to take in more of my surroundings and I noticed a display cabinet partly built into the middle of the long wall with the same dark brown wood laminate framing and with sliding plexiglas doors. The cabinet contained an assortment of photographs of babies, a few of Bashir with important official looking people, plastic flowers (there was also a bright blue side table across the room with a small pot of fake glaringly yellow flowers on top), various plastic farm animals including a cow, a sheep, and a horse, and then also a strange chrome trophy in the shape of two flowers with the words "love" written on it and with the flower buds appearing as if they were soft marshmallow candies in bright red and blue and coated with sugary sparkles. I heard a strange electronic buzzing ring behind me and I looked up to find a bizarre chunky white plastic cuckoo clock on the wall above my head with a pair of small spinning chromed plastic "windmills" set into niches on the plastic face and as well, at the top in it's own niche, a spinning chromed plastic robot, all chiming the hour in a synthesized whirr.
My ride came and I was headed back to the houseboat for a nap.
Eid Al-Fitr
Yesterday was the Muslim holiday of Eid Al-Fitr (or their equivalent of Christmas as they like to tell me) and it's a celebration of the end of Ramadan (a month of fasting from sun up until sun down to teach patience and humility, as well as to remind that they are fortunate and should help the needy and less so). It was supposed to have been the day before but apparently the moon wasn't seen to be in the proper alignment or shape according to the scientists. Prayer at the mosque started at 4:30am with the call sent out into the village by powered loudspeakers, and which carried across the lake reverberating off the hills. I was awake anyway and so I listened, trying to hear what I didn't understand. Prayer starts at 4:30 every morning, but normally it's just the caller. Because yesterday was a special holiday, many were already gathering at the mosque... they have to get their prayer in sometime during the "daytime" (12am - 12pm)... and I could hear many voices in chorus along with the main voice of the caller.
The houseboat I'm staying on is moored within view of the main road and causeway separating our quieter and more serene Nageen lake from the more noisy and touristy Dal Lake, and which links the downtown area to the relatively new, large, and main Mosque a few miles further up the lake. I had received a tour on a shikara (small covered skiff paddled by one or two persons not unlike a gondola) in the "floating gardens" of Dal Lake (which are more like an overgrown lilly pad and weed swamp without the mosquitoes, and with some more stable islands on which fishermen have built houses, than gardens... apparently the "gardens" are in bloom during July and August so I suppose I missed the full picture of paradise) the day before by a wonderfully polite, quiet, small (but strong) elderly Muslim gentleman who took me as far as the Mosque where we go out and wandered through the neighboring markets.
The morning of Eid I watched a constant parade of overloaded cars, buses (short ones with roof racks and ladders on which riders can sit or hang onto), motorcycles, auto-rickshaws, and bicycles carrying worshippers flow towards the sound of the calling. By late morning I was wishing I could go and see the spectacle but I really didn't know how... I was expecting to join Bashir and his family for the celebratory lunch later and so I wasn't sure if I should go. Fortunately Bashir thought I should see the event and so he sent Shakeel to come fetch and escort me to the Mosque. We went out to the road, past the kids playing Cricket in the dusty field, flagged down a bus, and literally jumped aboard while it was still moving, albeit slowly.
Thousands were already there and the streets neighboring the Mosque were filled so we had to stop and walk the remainder of the way with everyone else. The roads were jambed with traffic and carts, and beggars with various ailments, hungers, disfigurements, and dismemberment lined the way. According to Shakeel most of the beggars are not Kashmiri... the government gives some kind of monthly stipend to these people and so they often spend summers in the north and then migrate south for the winter.
As a side note, Shakeel mentioned that the majority of Kashmiri are Muslim, both Sunni and Shiite, and that the majority of these are Shiite. After the end of prayers and on our way home we were walking along with the crowds and Shakeel stopped to listen to a group of men who were talking about a Shiite man in the crowd who had been beaten by the police (who apparently were Sunni) but that the Shiite crowd had stopped the beating. Shakeel tells me that Kashmir doesn't have the same violence as in Iraq between Shiite and Sunni... they have different Mosques but "they pray to the same prophet and read the same Koran".
The Mosque itself is a traditional form , with a fairly squat onion shaped dome and an adjacent minaret tower. This newer Mosque had a large courtyard and grassy area between the building and the lakefront stone wharf. Worshippers covered the entire area in the thousands (Bashir claims 500,000 prayed there that day but I saw less than 10,000, I think... not sure how you go about counting exactly or telling the difference for that matter) with the women separated from the men by a large walkway leading to the entrance. I walked along the way between them but didn't dare go inside. The women, including the girls, were spectacular... they had dressed in their best robes flowing and emanating vibrant colors of pink and yellow and orange and blue and their feet were decorated with jewelled sandals or heels. The little girls wore similar clothing but often theirs had more sequins and they carried little purses and wore heels that looked a little too big for their feet. The younger girls' hair is almost always cut in a bob that gives them a boyish look and, without their dresses, makes it hard sometimes to tell them from the boys at first glance.
I felt fairly emotional experiencing this crowd and I'm not entirely sure why... lack of sleep, foreign country, stressful travel; perhaps. But actually when I look deeper at it I see people being true to their beliefs in a communal and peaceful manner and I think that's what finds its way to my heart. Never having had, nor any belief in, formal religion I find most religious rituals and expressions personally void of meaning, although I do intellectually understand that others find immense solace and comfort and rich experience and knowledge in the practices. However, this mass expression of community and practice, regardless of my unknowing experience of the religious aspects, feels more universal and connective instead of isolating and divisive. The day before, on a small island in the lake just in front and within direct view of the Mosque, on the shikara tour with my elderly guide, and where there was a small pavilion set up for picknicking among a couple of military tents, a scattering of sandbag bunkers among the trees and with a few soldiers in varying states of undress, I met and spoke with a very nice middle aged man on a day holiday with his two children, a boy 7 and a girl perhaps 6, and his smaller 4 year old nephew. The man was a bank manager and I learned that his wife was a teacher in the primary schools. I think we started by talking about America, then Americans, followed seemingly inevitably by Bush, and then the holiday, and I asked if he was Muslim, which he was, and then he asked if I was Christian. I said no, that I was "nothing" with a bit of a side-to-side hand gesture and immediately his face lit up with a smile. He quickly asserted that he felt all people were just that, human, and that all religion was simply a false division... that in truth we're all the same.
After prayer ended at noon, Shakeel and I struggled through the crowds and traffic surrounding the Mosque and through the neighboring markets displaying fruit, clothing, pastry, teas, and plastic toys before walking the whole way back to the houseboat.
The houseboat I'm staying on is moored within view of the main road and causeway separating our quieter and more serene Nageen lake from the more noisy and touristy Dal Lake, and which links the downtown area to the relatively new, large, and main Mosque a few miles further up the lake. I had received a tour on a shikara (small covered skiff paddled by one or two persons not unlike a gondola) in the "floating gardens" of Dal Lake (which are more like an overgrown lilly pad and weed swamp without the mosquitoes, and with some more stable islands on which fishermen have built houses, than gardens... apparently the "gardens" are in bloom during July and August so I suppose I missed the full picture of paradise) the day before by a wonderfully polite, quiet, small (but strong) elderly Muslim gentleman who took me as far as the Mosque where we go out and wandered through the neighboring markets.
The morning of Eid I watched a constant parade of overloaded cars, buses (short ones with roof racks and ladders on which riders can sit or hang onto), motorcycles, auto-rickshaws, and bicycles carrying worshippers flow towards the sound of the calling. By late morning I was wishing I could go and see the spectacle but I really didn't know how... I was expecting to join Bashir and his family for the celebratory lunch later and so I wasn't sure if I should go. Fortunately Bashir thought I should see the event and so he sent Shakeel to come fetch and escort me to the Mosque. We went out to the road, past the kids playing Cricket in the dusty field, flagged down a bus, and literally jumped aboard while it was still moving, albeit slowly.
Thousands were already there and the streets neighboring the Mosque were filled so we had to stop and walk the remainder of the way with everyone else. The roads were jambed with traffic and carts, and beggars with various ailments, hungers, disfigurements, and dismemberment lined the way. According to Shakeel most of the beggars are not Kashmiri... the government gives some kind of monthly stipend to these people and so they often spend summers in the north and then migrate south for the winter.
As a side note, Shakeel mentioned that the majority of Kashmiri are Muslim, both Sunni and Shiite, and that the majority of these are Shiite. After the end of prayers and on our way home we were walking along with the crowds and Shakeel stopped to listen to a group of men who were talking about a Shiite man in the crowd who had been beaten by the police (who apparently were Sunni) but that the Shiite crowd had stopped the beating. Shakeel tells me that Kashmir doesn't have the same violence as in Iraq between Shiite and Sunni... they have different Mosques but "they pray to the same prophet and read the same Koran".
The Mosque itself is a traditional form , with a fairly squat onion shaped dome and an adjacent minaret tower. This newer Mosque had a large courtyard and grassy area between the building and the lakefront stone wharf. Worshippers covered the entire area in the thousands (Bashir claims 500,000 prayed there that day but I saw less than 10,000, I think... not sure how you go about counting exactly or telling the difference for that matter) with the women separated from the men by a large walkway leading to the entrance. I walked along the way between them but didn't dare go inside. The women, including the girls, were spectacular... they had dressed in their best robes flowing and emanating vibrant colors of pink and yellow and orange and blue and their feet were decorated with jewelled sandals or heels. The little girls wore similar clothing but often theirs had more sequins and they carried little purses and wore heels that looked a little too big for their feet. The younger girls' hair is almost always cut in a bob that gives them a boyish look and, without their dresses, makes it hard sometimes to tell them from the boys at first glance.
I felt fairly emotional experiencing this crowd and I'm not entirely sure why... lack of sleep, foreign country, stressful travel; perhaps. But actually when I look deeper at it I see people being true to their beliefs in a communal and peaceful manner and I think that's what finds its way to my heart. Never having had, nor any belief in, formal religion I find most religious rituals and expressions personally void of meaning, although I do intellectually understand that others find immense solace and comfort and rich experience and knowledge in the practices. However, this mass expression of community and practice, regardless of my unknowing experience of the religious aspects, feels more universal and connective instead of isolating and divisive. The day before, on a small island in the lake just in front and within direct view of the Mosque, on the shikara tour with my elderly guide, and where there was a small pavilion set up for picknicking among a couple of military tents, a scattering of sandbag bunkers among the trees and with a few soldiers in varying states of undress, I met and spoke with a very nice middle aged man on a day holiday with his two children, a boy 7 and a girl perhaps 6, and his smaller 4 year old nephew. The man was a bank manager and I learned that his wife was a teacher in the primary schools. I think we started by talking about America, then Americans, followed seemingly inevitably by Bush, and then the holiday, and I asked if he was Muslim, which he was, and then he asked if I was Christian. I said no, that I was "nothing" with a bit of a side-to-side hand gesture and immediately his face lit up with a smile. He quickly asserted that he felt all people were just that, human, and that all religion was simply a false division... that in truth we're all the same.
After prayer ended at noon, Shakeel and I struggled through the crowds and traffic surrounding the Mosque and through the neighboring markets displaying fruit, clothing, pastry, teas, and plastic toys before walking the whole way back to the houseboat.
Just Say No
Everyone is trying to sell me something.
The other morning I awoke on the Peace of Mind houseboat moored on Nageen Lake in Srinagar, Kashmir from the first good night sleep I've had since arriving in India. I hadn't slept much the previous night in Delhi, which is becoming a pattern for reasons I'll get into later, and so the night before I was very happy to have had a hot shower, a simple meal of rice, dal, a cabbage stew of sorts, and some spiced cauliflower, and then gone off to bed under some heavy blankets (it gets cold here at night) snuggled up against the most welcome of luxuries, a miraculous hot water bottle that stayed warm all night.
I was enjoying the warming morning sun on the deck of the houseboat when an elderly dark-skinned Muslim gentleman paddled up in a skiff laden with pots of local flowers arranged in color from bright canary yellows through carnation oranges to burnt umber on into vermilion reds and finally to the depths of purple/violet. I made the mistake of grabbing my camera and so he knew I was taken by the sight from the start. Speaking broken but understandable English, he offered a free flower which looked as if it were a purple flame and then proceeded into the soft sell. I ended up paying more for a pot of dying flowers than I ever would have even in New York. By the way, the motto written on the inside of his skiff is "Mr.BulBul Flower Man... every seed is my possible in my boat". Not quite sure what he means by that but I can think of one thing...
During a breakfast of Kashmiri green tea, flat bread with butter and jam (some sort of berry very much like strawberry), and an "omelet" I was interrupted by a man wishing to sell me some of his "family's" traditional Kashmiri paintings. As a side note, I later read in my guide book that many houseboat operators allow local sellers onto the boat to try and make some commissions off what is sold... true enough. I said I'd be willing to look at the paintings for fear of not wanting to offend the man and so he sat down on the floor, opened his duffel bag, and proceeded to give me his pitch... "you my first customer, today is a lucky day, tomorrow is the holiday, you bring luck by buying (my crap)"... while unfurling some of the most kitschy "paintings" of the Hindu gods, animals, and Kashmiri landscapes all done in a sort of cartooning way on black velvet. He asked me to put aside any of the ones that I thought interesting and so I reluctantly pointed out one of Sita and Radha and another of a tiger. Out of curiosity I asked him how much and he said "you my first customer, today is a lucky day, tomorrow is the holiday, you bring luck by buying". How much? $50 USD for both? Crazy. As I got up to leave I told him that I couldn't afford to buy them and that I couldn't spend any money. He then asked me what I could spend and I have no idea why I continued but I tried the diplomatic approach and said I didn't want to offend him because they were clearly worth more than how little I could afford. With him pressing the issue I finally said 1000 Rs ($25 USD) not even wanting either of them and in fact feeling a bit upset for even allowing myself to be in this position. After him saying he couldn't sell for that, and me saying I couldn't pay more, I ended up with two paintings on black velvet that I now have to lug around for the next three months for 1000 Rs.
On offer to the highest bidder: two lovely paintings done in the traditional Kashmiri kitsch style on black velvet... Sita/Radha and Tiger. I'll start the bidding at $1 USD if any one's interested. They're beautiful, no really.
Why do I have such a hard time saying no?! ...which is in a way how I ended up in Kashmir to begin with. Apparently, as I learned afterwards, Kashmir is known for VERY aggressive tactics among the local people selling their goods (and "good" is not necessarily appropriate). Perhaps this wasn't really the right place for a person of my constitution to be. I don't enjoy bargaining, I really can't stand feeling like I'm being lied to, and yet I also have a very hard time saying no to someone when they ask something of me. I seem to have developed this fear that either I'll offend them if I say no or perhaps they won't like me. I've associated allowing my self to disappear with having someone like me... if there's nothing there to see then there's nothing to criticize or take offense with.
Contrarily, I have an easy time saying "no that can't be right" when someone asserts any kind of notion that I haven't (impossibly) independently verified personally before they've said it... I often allow very little benefit of the doubt. Obviously I have trust issues. And yet somehow I trust a complete stranger to sell me a package deal on an unseen houseboat in Kashmir, "paradise on earth" of all places?! I think there's a certain sense of self-valuation and confidence that I need to discover. I often don't value my time and effort and energy and space and skill in the way that I should. Some of this comes from looking at self-value, incorrectly, as if it were hubris. Also, as a somewhat related side note, I've been introducing myself as "American" rather than from the "USA" because I don't like thinking of myself as being associated with people chanting "USA, USA, USA" in a prideful way that seems to me to exclude the possibility of any foreign person or place being worthwhile.
India thus far has been an experience in constant offerings of teachings... Spent too much money on crap I didn't want just because someone pushes me, and it's easier to be nice and say ok and avoid the awkwardness now and feel awful about myself later than it is to just say no? Thank you for the lesson. It was this feeling bad about myself for having knowingly allowed someone to take advantage of me that had kept me up most of the night before. But I am learning (slowly) to assert my own self and interests. Actually, since that morning ई've found myself in several similar situations where I'm asked to buy something and I've found that I am willing and fairly capable of standing my ground and even bargaining if it's something I want. I just have to remember that awful feeling of self-loathing and know that I always have the freedom to walk away, self respect intact... that can't be taken, only given away.
The other morning I awoke on the Peace of Mind houseboat moored on Nageen Lake in Srinagar, Kashmir from the first good night sleep I've had since arriving in India. I hadn't slept much the previous night in Delhi, which is becoming a pattern for reasons I'll get into later, and so the night before I was very happy to have had a hot shower, a simple meal of rice, dal, a cabbage stew of sorts, and some spiced cauliflower, and then gone off to bed under some heavy blankets (it gets cold here at night) snuggled up against the most welcome of luxuries, a miraculous hot water bottle that stayed warm all night.
I was enjoying the warming morning sun on the deck of the houseboat when an elderly dark-skinned Muslim gentleman paddled up in a skiff laden with pots of local flowers arranged in color from bright canary yellows through carnation oranges to burnt umber on into vermilion reds and finally to the depths of purple/violet. I made the mistake of grabbing my camera and so he knew I was taken by the sight from the start. Speaking broken but understandable English, he offered a free flower which looked as if it were a purple flame and then proceeded into the soft sell. I ended up paying more for a pot of dying flowers than I ever would have even in New York. By the way, the motto written on the inside of his skiff is "Mr.BulBul Flower Man... every seed is my possible in my boat". Not quite sure what he means by that but I can think of one thing...
During a breakfast of Kashmiri green tea, flat bread with butter and jam (some sort of berry very much like strawberry), and an "omelet" I was interrupted by a man wishing to sell me some of his "family's" traditional Kashmiri paintings. As a side note, I later read in my guide book that many houseboat operators allow local sellers onto the boat to try and make some commissions off what is sold... true enough. I said I'd be willing to look at the paintings for fear of not wanting to offend the man and so he sat down on the floor, opened his duffel bag, and proceeded to give me his pitch... "you my first customer, today is a lucky day, tomorrow is the holiday, you bring luck by buying (my crap)"... while unfurling some of the most kitschy "paintings" of the Hindu gods, animals, and Kashmiri landscapes all done in a sort of cartooning way on black velvet. He asked me to put aside any of the ones that I thought interesting and so I reluctantly pointed out one of Sita and Radha and another of a tiger. Out of curiosity I asked him how much and he said "you my first customer, today is a lucky day, tomorrow is the holiday, you bring luck by buying". How much? $50 USD for both? Crazy. As I got up to leave I told him that I couldn't afford to buy them and that I couldn't spend any money. He then asked me what I could spend and I have no idea why I continued but I tried the diplomatic approach and said I didn't want to offend him because they were clearly worth more than how little I could afford. With him pressing the issue I finally said 1000 Rs ($25 USD) not even wanting either of them and in fact feeling a bit upset for even allowing myself to be in this position. After him saying he couldn't sell for that, and me saying I couldn't pay more, I ended up with two paintings on black velvet that I now have to lug around for the next three months for 1000 Rs.
On offer to the highest bidder: two lovely paintings done in the traditional Kashmiri kitsch style on black velvet... Sita/Radha and Tiger. I'll start the bidding at $1 USD if any one's interested. They're beautiful, no really.Why do I have such a hard time saying no?! ...which is in a way how I ended up in Kashmir to begin with. Apparently, as I learned afterwards, Kashmir is known for VERY aggressive tactics among the local people selling their goods (and "good" is not necessarily appropriate). Perhaps this wasn't really the right place for a person of my constitution to be. I don't enjoy bargaining, I really can't stand feeling like I'm being lied to, and yet I also have a very hard time saying no to someone when they ask something of me. I seem to have developed this fear that either I'll offend them if I say no or perhaps they won't like me. I've associated allowing my self to disappear with having someone like me... if there's nothing there to see then there's nothing to criticize or take offense with.
Contrarily, I have an easy time saying "no that can't be right" when someone asserts any kind of notion that I haven't (impossibly) independently verified personally before they've said it... I often allow very little benefit of the doubt. Obviously I have trust issues. And yet somehow I trust a complete stranger to sell me a package deal on an unseen houseboat in Kashmir, "paradise on earth" of all places?! I think there's a certain sense of self-valuation and confidence that I need to discover. I often don't value my time and effort and energy and space and skill in the way that I should. Some of this comes from looking at self-value, incorrectly, as if it were hubris. Also, as a somewhat related side note, I've been introducing myself as "American" rather than from the "USA" because I don't like thinking of myself as being associated with people chanting "USA, USA, USA" in a prideful way that seems to me to exclude the possibility of any foreign person or place being worthwhile.
India thus far has been an experience in constant offerings of teachings... Spent too much money on crap I didn't want just because someone pushes me, and it's easier to be nice and say ok and avoid the awkwardness now and feel awful about myself later than it is to just say no? Thank you for the lesson. It was this feeling bad about myself for having knowingly allowed someone to take advantage of me that had kept me up most of the night before. But I am learning (slowly) to assert my own self and interests. Actually, since that morning ई've found myself in several similar situations where I'm asked to buy something and I've found that I am willing and fairly capable of standing my ground and even bargaining if it's something I want. I just have to remember that awful feeling of self-loathing and know that I always have the freedom to walk away, self respect intact... that can't be taken, only given away.
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