Ripples Following Ripples ~ THE
SUBCONTINENT
On October 26th, I flew from Malaysia to Kathmandu,
where I contacted my old porter, Subha, with the idea
of him going with me to India, as a translator and
to help with my baggage; he agreed to this, but first,
I had him accompany me on some treks around the valley,
and even walked most of the way Daman and down the
other side to Hetauda, in order to get fit for the
longer trip. During this time, I came to see that
his Hindi was very limited; he wouldn’t be of
much use as a translator after all. I then sent him
home to his village while I got my visa for India.
In the meantime, I met someone whose English ~ and
Hindi ~ was better than Subha’s, and asked if
he’d like to go with me. He readily agreed,
as he had only a part-time job in a restaurant, for
which he was paid virtually nothing. His name was
Dawa, but I later called him Jack, as in Jackdaw.
He said he’d spent over ten years in school
in India, and assured me that I would not regret employing
him, as he was honest and trustworthy. I had then
the unpleasant task of telling Subha that I’d
changed my mind, and when he came, I broke it to him,
but, needless to say, he was disappointed. I gave
him some money instead.
After the usual ridiculous procedure of applying for
the Indian visa, my passport was endorsed for a double-entry,
6-months’ stay, and we left Kathmandu for Pokhara.
In my eagerness to be started, I overlooked what soon
became clear in Jack: that he was not as honest and
trustworthy as he’d claimed to be ~ and in fact,
was just the opposite. I would ~ and should ~ have
dis-missed him early, but I’d already paid him
a month in advance, as he’d begged me to do
this in order to help his cousin pay the rent on the
room they shared. He’d also asked me to pay
him at the end of the trip, clever fellow, which meant
me paying for all his needs, apart from food and transport.
In retrospect, I should have cut my losses and gone
on alone, because apart from carrying one of my bags,
he was a distinct liability.
Maybe I should mention that days of traveling light
are a thing of ancient history; I seem to need so
much now ~ especially in the way of medication ~ that
I never needed before. I also carry stuff that I think
might be useful, and often is.
I intended to retrace my footsteps and visit places
I’d been be-fore, and also go to places I’d
not been. I know India much better than I know England,
and could even be a guide there. I’d told him
we’d be walking a lot, but despite the claim
that he was a trekking-guide, he really wasn’t
a walker at all. I reminded him, numerous times, how
I’d urged Subha to walk with me instead of behind,
but it had no effect. I thought he’d be interested
in the sights I had to show him, but a sack of rice
would have cared as much. He slept most of the time
in buses and trains.
He requested me, many times, to help him with his
English, and I willingly agreed to, as we had plenty
of time, but when I set him simple exercises on things
I’d explained to him, he refused to do them,
saying he couldn’t. Of course, my efforts to
help him in this area didn’t last long; I felt
I was dealing with a donkey.
In India, we went first to Lucknow, where he complained
of sick-ness, so I took him to a hospital for a blood-test,
which showed he had mild jaundice. I left him in the
hotel to rest, and got him food and medicine, but
later discovered that he’d stopped taking it
when he felt better. I was careful to keep his eating
utensils and mine separate.
We proceeded from Lucknow to Allahabad, to visit Mughal
tombs and Raj-era buildings. Then, while boarding
a crowded train, Jack’s wallet was ~ almost
predictably ~ lifted from his back pocket. There was
nothing to be done; he just had to accept it.
On we went to Khajuraho, where I’d never been
before; I decided not to miss it this time. It is
famous, world-wide, for its tantric-temples carved
with figures in erotic postures depicting the teach-ings
of the Kama Sutra, a Hindu treatise on sex. Because
of the explicit detail, they are known as ‘the
Love-temples’, some of which are over 1000 years
old, and their art is marvelous. Of course, Khajuraho
is a major tourist-spot, and there are hotels to suit
every pocket. I chose a cheapie, paying just Rs60.
Further west, we spent several days in Orchha,
a small place that had centuries before been a mighty
city; there were fortifications, temples and tombs
in abundance to remind one of its former glory. Its
water-source, a placid and unpolluted river ~ something
rare in India ~ ran nearby, and I found it conducive
to meditation. Hotels here were very cheap; I got
a room for Rs100.
Because he very much wanted to see the Taj Mahal,
I took him to Agra, but gave up showing him around
other places there as his interest was of brief duration.
I gave him money to go to the Taj ~ Rs20 ~ but saved
$20 by not going in myself; I had been several times
before when the entrance-fee was much lower and the
lines of people waiting to go in not so long.
We boarded an overnight train to Hyderabad, and reaching
there, we found it hard to find a hotel-room as it
was New Year’s Eve, and I had to settle for
one at double what I usually paid. This far south,
it was already very warm. We stopped only long enough
for a quick look around. I particularly wanted to
see the old British Residency, built at the beginning
of the 19th century in palatial style, and paid for
~ probably under thinly-veiled pressure ~ by the immensely-wealthy
ruler of Hyderabad, known as the Nizam. It
is now used as a women’s college, but is grossly
neglected and rapidly falling into ruin. Unable to
find anyone to unlock the front door and let me in,
I wandered around and found the back-door open, and
went in, to be confronted by a splendid double stair-case,
mounting which, I was able to see the upper rooms
and view the great hall from above. Everywhere was
a thick layer of dust and pigeon-droppings. No-one
challenged me or asked to see the ticket that I didn’t
have. I felt sad that such a magnificent building
should be so uncared for.
In the middle of a man-made lake stands an 18-meter-tall
mono-lithic Buddha-image of recent sculpting. Size
took precedence over beauty in it, however. And, while
getting it into position, it fell into the lake and
remained there for several years until a way was devised
to salvage and erect it on its pedestal.
We got an overnight train to Madras, which was even
hotter. It used not to be so hot at this time of year,
but then, we shouldn’t be surprised by anything
like this these days.
Jack had never seen the ocean before, and his inability
to under-stand was amusing. I told him that Thailand
was on the other side from where we were standing,
but because he couldn’t see any land, he found
it hard to imagine; the largest body of water he had
seen until then was Lake Manasarova in Tibet. He had
me take photos of him with the camera someone had
given him; he always had to be in his photos, and
if there was no-one to take them for him, he wouldn’t
take any, no matter what was to be seen. He was also
in love with mirrors, vainly preening himself.
Madras had never been a place I liked; in spite of
its wide roads, it is hot, humid, dirty and smelly.
I went to an overgrown British cemetery, the graves
thereof are used by locals as perches to let their
feces go. Have I not said that India is one big open
toilet?
From Madras, we went next to Rameshwaram,
a place of some significance to me, as one of the
turning-points in my life took place there. I went
into the temple to meditate beside one of the bathing-pools,
and take photos of the mandalas on the corridor-ceilings;
but nothing is free, and I emerged to find my sandals
gone. I had to walk barefoot back to the hotel to
get my spare pair. From then on, whenever I went to
a temple or mosque, I would put my sandals in a plastic-bag
and carry them with me. If only I’d been more
cautious with other things.
Having made contact with my old Austrian friend, Erwin,
the year before (after losing touch with him since
’77), we exchanged emails, and since he and
his wife also intended to make a trip to India, we
planned to meet. When the time and opportunity came,
however, neither of us, it seemed, was prepared to
go out of the way for the other; perhaps we’d
changed too much in the inter-vening years, and were
afraid of what we might find. We didn’t meet,
and the communication lapsed yet again.
Rameshwaram was our furthest-south point, from where
we went to Madurai, to see its stupendous
temples; we stayed only one night there before going
on to a hill-station named Kodaicanal that
had been established by American missionaries in the
19th century. The road up was long and steep, climbing
through thickly-wooded hills, and I wondered how they’d
decided upon this place to establish their settlement.
Again, we spent just one night there, then descended
to Coimbatore, ready to catch a toy-train
the next day to Ooty (the most-favorite hill-station
of the Brits in the south during their Raj; its complete
name is Udagamandalam). The engine of the
train ~ at the rear, in order to push ~ belched thick
black smoke as it chugged and puffed its way up-hill;
it was over 100 years old, while the carriages had
been con-structed in 1931; no need to say that they
were not the most-comfortable seats I’d sat
on, but then, we were along for the ex-perience, and
I marveled at the feat of engineering needed to push
this line up through jungle and over ravines.
The Brits came here to unwind, trudging up by bullock-cart
before the train-line was laid. What a relief it must
have been for them to escape the heat of the plains!
For me, it was just a brief stop-over on the way to
somewhere else, and I had not the feeling here that
I’d had in hill-stations of the north, where
there was a distinct melancholic atmosphere of old
ghosts. We stayed here only one night, too, and then
descended by bus (there’s no train down the
other side), to Mysore.
I‘d been to Mysore only once before, in 1970,
and remembered little about it. It is now much more
crowded and congested, of course, but nicer, in some
ways, than most other Indian cities. There is so much
to see in and around the city. It is from here that
you can visit Somnathpur, an intricately-carved
temple built 750 years ago. Although small as Indian
temples go, the wealth of detail is simply staggering;
the type of stone used allowed the artists to carve
it like butter. This was the high-water mark of the
Hoysala dynasty that flourished in this region
for several centuries. Similar temples lie further
to the north, the most-famous of which are found at
Halebid and Belur.
In the vicinity, too, is Sravanabelagola,
a pilgrimage-site of Jains, where stands an image
of one of their saints, almost 18 meters tall, and
shown naked to demonstrate detachment from worldly
things. I did not go there.
Apart from the maharaja’s extensive city-palace,
which is open to the public, and other places, I found
the old British residency of great interest, because
unlike the one in Hyderabad, this is well-maintained
and even used at times by VIPs. I was shown around
by a polite old caretaker, and noticed on a wall a
photo showing some Buddhist caves at a place called
Melkote, not far away. I resolved to go there,
but first, went to visit Srirangapatnam,
a heavily-fortified town that had been the capital
of a Muslim ruler of Mysore state named Tipu Sultan
at the end of the 18th century. Far-sighted, he realized
what the British in India had in mind, and opposed
their encroachments; of course, he was demonized by
them, although by other accounts he was quite a benevolent
ruler, and treated his non-Muslim subjects fairly.
Allying himself with the French ~ who were also there,
with similar colonial aims ~ he defeated British armies
several times, but was finally over-thrown in 1799,
and the British grabbed Mysore. Tipu’s beautiful
summer-palace is well-preserved but only the ground-floor
is open to the public; I’d seen the upper portion
in 1970.
Next day, I made my way out to Melkote with Jack,
but only to find that there were no caves on the rocky
outcrop; maybe I’d read the words on the photo
wrongly. Even so, I enjoyed it there, but loss was
near. While meditating on the steps of a temple-tank,
I put my camera down beside me, and then forgot it,
only to remember it two minutes later, and rush back,
but it was too late, and it had gone. What to do?
I wasn’t happy about it, of course, as it contained
all the photos of my trip in Nepal and India so far,
but I accepted it and let it go.
Another day, we went to the Tibetan monasteries to
the west ~ Sera-Je and Namdroling
~ huge and beautiful places in traditional style,
lodging thousands of monks and nuns. They had been
built from scratch by refugees granted land by the
Indian government in the ‘60’s; being
mountain-people, they must have found the hot climate
very trying, but with hard work and determination,
they succeeded to a remarkable degree. Many good things
came from the Chinese take-over of Tibet, and not
just pain and sorrow.
Leaving Mysore, we went to Halebid and Belur, mentioned
above. More tourists visit these amazing temples than
Somnath-pur. I’d visited Halebid in 1970, but
missed Belur at that time.
Passing on, we got a bus to a place called Hospet,
but the road was bad and the bus slow. At one point,
I stood up to give a woman my seat (in India, it is
rare to see anyone do this), but 40 minutes later,
I got another. An hour out of Hospet there was a traffic-jam,
with one-way traffic for almost an hour; it was hot
sitting there. At Hospet, hordes of people were waiting
to get on the bus, and we had to force our way out.
We got another bus to our destination of that day:
Hampi, the capital of a Hindu dynasty some
centuries ago; the ruins of which are spread over
a vast area among huge granite boulders; there was
no shortage of building material here. I’d come
here mainly to sit beside the river and meditate,
as I’d done during a visit in 1987. In the meantime,
a sizeable village had sprung up to cater to the influx
of tourists, and had I known it would be like this
~ a hippie-place ~ I wouldn’t have come again.
Getting a room in a cheapie, I discovered I’d
lost my padlock ~ must have left it at Belur ~ and
was more upset about this than the loss of my camera!
I always carry my own lock in India, to use on the
hasps on most hotel-rooms; that way, no-one can enter
your room when you’re out.
I spent some time ~ as intended ~ sitting beside
the lovely river, and even crossed it by coracle ~
another first; never been in such a boat before. On
the way back, I went into a cyber-café, and
while doing my mail, an old English guy two chairs
away from me started to smoke, so I eventually asked
him not to. He argued that there were ash-trays, and
the owner, who was standing by, said some people liked
to smoke. I said I didn’t, and it’s the
law now. As I went out, I told the owner he should
have signs up so everyone could see. Later, I met
the English guy on the street, and he apologized to
me, saying he realized he should have thought about
others. I told him I had to say it as I tell Indians
about it, and if I tell only Indians but not others,
it would mean I am racist. We shook hands.
By this time, Jack had become uncommunicative, and
resisted my scolding about this, saying he didn’t
know what to say; some days he would speak no more
than 100 words to me. I gave up expecting much of
him, and looked forward to parting company with him.
If I could have put him on a direct train to Gorakhpur,
I would have done, but there was none, and he was
so afraid of going alone that I dared not send him
on a journey that required changing trains; I felt
that much responsibility towards him, at
least. I began to give him advances on his pay, even
though he didn’t want it, preferring to let
me pay for everything. I told him he needed money
to buy whatever he needed beyond his food and transport;
I should have done this from the start, as he only
took advantage of me.
Moving north, stage by stage, we stopped briefly at
other places in Karnataka ~ Badami, Bijapur and
Bidar ~ places of Muslim kingdoms in the past,
with extensive fortifications. Then on to Maharashtra,
which is perhaps my favorite state of India because
of the numerous Buddhist caves there. Using Aurangabad
as a hub, I went out several times to Ellora, leaving
Jack to his own devices, as he was clearly not interested,
and I wanted to be on my own anyway. There, I sat
beside the rock-pools of a stream that runs at one
side of the caves, a tranquil spot that captured my
heart years before. Although there are hordes of tourists
at the caves themselves, few of them come here, and
the smaller caves beside the stream here are sometimes
used by sadhus.
After a few days in Aurangabad, we went to Ajanta,
three hours away in the other direction. Since my
last visit there, things had changed, and the stalls
selling crystals and trinkets had been re-located
from near the caves to a place near the road-junction.
Many people remembered me, and I them, but I soon
learned of the demise of Mahmoud, someone
who’d befriended me before. His younger brother,
Sharif, took me to visit his widow and chil-dren to
extend my condolences, and as I was leaving, I gave
him some money for her, but the way he quickly pocketed
it made me think that she would never see it.
Stocking up on ‘thunder-eggs’, as I usually
did whenever I was there ~ and getting cheated by
some of the stall-holders in the process ~ we returned
to Aurangabad to send most of them off by post to
Malaysia, to await my return. I also bought a cheap
Kodak at Ajanta, to replace my lost camera; it took
quite good pictures even so.
It was the beginning of February, and unseasonably
hot, and whereas in the north, people had been dying
of cold in January, the sudden heat-wave also took
its toll; it lasted about two weeks before the temperature
dropped considerably. February used to be a pleasant
month, cold enough at night for the use of blankets,
but just right in the daytime. Not any more!
My account of our journey on from Maharashtra I will
condense by saying that I revisited a number of places
and went to others I’d never been before: Surat
(centre of India’s diamond-industry), Ahmedabad
(former capital of Gujerat state), Junagadh (the Mus-lim
maharaja of which had a passion for dogs, some of
which he bedraped with jewels, and even held weddings
for them, until, at the time of Partition in 1947,
he chose Pakistan over India; what became of his dogs,
I didn’t learn!), Diu (a former Portuguese en-clave),
Mount Abu, with its salubrious climate and exquisitely-carved
marble Jain temples (and where a dog suddenly ran
up behind me and bit me on the leg, necessitating
five anti-rabies shots spread over several weeks;
better to be on the safe side), Udaipur (famous for
its lake-palace), Chitoorgarh (with its im-mense and
almost impregnable fort, where, unable to withstand
the protracted siege of the Mughal Emperor Akbar,
the Rajput warriors rode forth to be cut
down, while their women and chil-dren ~ 13,000 of
them ~ threw themselves into a pyre rather than face
capture and dishonor), Bundi (where, upset by his
denuncia-tions of the Hindu gods and his attempts
to convert them, people had hung an effigy of an American
missionary in an archway; he’d wisely fled their
wrath), Kota (where I was invited to join a wedding-feast
in a courtyard of the old palace), Ajmer (renowned
for its Sufi shrine), Pushkar (a major Hindu holy-town
centered around a lake; I sat in meditation in the
only temple to Brahma in the world here), and Alwar,
dominated by the fort crowning the hills above the
town.
I’d had more than enough of Jack and his surliness
by then, so, being only a few hours from Delhi, went
to the capital, and finally got what I had looked
all over India for: a baggage-trolley. If I’d
had this from the start, I wouldn’t have needed
Jack’s help, but could have managed on my own.
I then got tickets for Gorakhpur, but didn’t
tell him until almost time to leave, that I’d
be on the same train. We reached there after an overnight
journey, and caught a bus to the border, where I paid
him off, although he really hadn’t earned what
I gave him. He was surprised that I de-ducted what
I’d advanced to him ~ a sum of $50 ~ and thought
I’d been giving it to him, as I did at first;
but even so, he showed no gratitude. He got a direct
bus to Kathmandu, and I, relieved of my burden, went
to Pokhara. I never saw him again. Hoorah!
It was March 1st.
After unwinding for a few days in Pokhara, I went
to Kathmandu, running the usual gauntlet of frequent
police and army check-points, with the consequent
delays. But there, I decided to return to India for
more penance, for such I’d come to
regard my fatal-attraction to that strange land. It
is a country where our Western standards of efficiency,
hygiene, manners, punctuality and so on, must be suspended
if we are to retain even a tenuous hold on our sanity.
Every time I’ve been there I said to myself,
“Never again will I come back to this hell”,
but it’s not long before my thoughts return
to it.
At the border, I met two Koreans who were also going
to India, and although ~ like me ~ they were wearing
ordinary clothes, I had a feeling that they were monks,
too, and when I encountered them again on the train
from Gorakhpur to Delhi, I asked them, and they confirmed
my feelings. I wasn’t the only one to travel
this way, feeling it less of a hassle to do so. I
bumped into them several times again in Delhi, where
they spent quite a while. Their English was almost
non-existent, however, so we were unable to talk much;
they didn’t respond to the emails I sent them,
so I gave up trying.
Upon returning to India, I’d not, as yet, decided
to go to Pakistan, much as I’d wanted to go
since my last trip in 1998. I was in two minds about
it, feeling that the situation there since 9/11 would
be much more risky for Westerners than before. As
I went to other places in Punjab and Himachal Pradesh,
however, the idea grew stronger, until I returned
to Delhi to apply for a visa. Before doing this, however,
I tried to get my Indian visa endorsed for another
re-entry, as the visa was valid until June, but I’d
already used the re-entry on it. Well, after waiting
four hours in a crowded office of the Ministry of
Home Affairs, I finally heard my name called, only
to be told that the officer I must see was absent,
and that I should come back the next day, something
I was not prepared to do. The babu (derogatory
term for a bureaucrat) who saw me asked why I wanted
to go to Pakistan anyway; I answered, “Why not?
There’s no law against it, is there?”
(With mind-sets such as his, is there any hope of
rapprochement between India and Pakistan?) With-out
a re-entry visa, I would need to get a completely
new Indian visa in Pakistan; there was no other way.
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