Going Native

My life here in India has been tuned to a series of (fairly dorky) theme songs, each of which keep popping up in my head as I'm living everyday life. For example:

1. "I think I'm turning Japanese. I really think so."

“Turning Japanese” by The Vapors (you know, those guys who made "Turning Japanese") has been running through my head for about a week or so, ever since I decided to get my nose pierced Indian-style. Well, in reality it's kind of an awkward version of the song, in which I replace “Japanese” with “Indian” (trust me, they won't be remixing the song this way anytime soon).

As I'm getting to know India, I've noticed that I'm doing a number of things in a distinctly Indian style. Don't get me wrong, to an actual Indian I still act as foreign as ever. But if an American were to see me, they might think that I had lost my mind.

Like what, you ask. Well, I've gotten a few skype complaints about my changing accent (and this was when I thought I sounded normal): “Why do you sound like you're from Minnesota?”

When I'm away from the prying ears of North Americans, my speech gets a little bit bizarre. With those who speak almost no English, I sound like a bad stand-up comedian doing an Indian impression (believe it or not, this is the only way I can get some rickshaw drivers, salesmen, and even teachers at the school to understand what I'm saying). With those who speak perfectly fluent but musically-accented English, it's a smaller diversion from my regular speech pattern, but I can still hear the bouncy, musical quality of the Indian accent beneath my speech. 

 I've also started moving my head in ways totally unrecognizable to the average American: I've started doing the head bobble. The head bobble is this distinct Indian head gesture in which one bobbles her head from side to side, quite a bit like one of those, ahem, bobble-head dolls. At first when I did it, I was like a child aping adults. Now, I actually use it to mean "okay." It's a kind of wishy-washy (to me anyway) affirmative, and today I managed to use it unconsciously (and the message was received!). I have to watch out, however, because from time to time I'll tilt my head in the American gesture of doubt and bring it back too quickly. I'm sure that this is something as confusing and frustrating to Indians as the bobble was to me when I first arrived. Yes or no?!?

Another example? I actually prefer Indian toilets at this point (at least, in public). I feel a bit like one of those Weebles on them (I wobble, but I don't fall down...yet), but when it's between that and hovering over a fishy-looking Western-style toilet... you get my point.

1a. Did She Just Say She Got Her nose Pierced in India??

Oh, but you're probably wondering what was up with that little cliffhanger up there. Yes, it's true, I'm a slave to trends. The vast majority of Indian women I see on a daily basis have these small (and not so small) gems in their noses, so as someone who's a bit obsessed with body art, the idea gnawed at me for about a week before I determinedly set out on my body piercing escapade.

Apparently there are a quite a few different places where you can have this done: at the doctor, at a goldsmith (who, I'm told, uses scary antiquated methods and needles), and at the rare tattoo parlor (a trend that hasn't picked up so much over here). While we're out shopping, changing money and satisfying someone's Subway craving (Tikka Paneer with yogurt sauce, quite yummy), I decide to drop in a small tattoo studio in the market.

Now, I've apprenticed in a tattoo studio, and I'm the first person to pick on American shops for being unsanitary and iffy. But this place is clean and the piercer speaks better English than most High School English teachers here, so I take a seat. I've had this done twice before, both times with a needle (and both times the stud fell out and the hole closed in my sleep). So I'm not especially nervous.

Meanwhile, Virali keeps walking away, something about not being about to watch. She's like a nervous little bunny over there (which, oddly, is the avatar my phone gave her), and she's making me nervous. I close my eyes.

And it's over. In my nose is a little fake-diamond and 14 carat gold (classy). It feels healed, like I've had it for weeks.

It's small and inconspicuous, but it has this nice placebo effect of making me feel like I fit in just a tiny bit more. I like to think that others notice it (I imaging they're thinking,“oh, this girl appreciates Indian culture. She's not so bad.”) and I feel a little bit less like a badger in a fox den. Sometimes it's the things that go on inside our heads that are the most important. 
 

Post Script: The Indian home remedy for a healing nose-piercing? Melted ghee (clarified butter).

2. Now I Know My ABCs...

I'm still just a toddler as far as knowledge and experience in India. The worst of it is the language barrier; you won't believe how incredibly difficult it is to sit down and listen to a “Listen and Learn: Hindi” tape in the middle of India. It feels a bit like sleeping the night before Christmas.

But either way, I'm picking up a few things. The absolute most important word that anyone can learn in India? Bas. If you're going to know one word in Hindi, don't make it police, hospital, or help. Better make it bas: enough.

It's fairly certain that no matter where you go in India, someone is going to try to feed you. Or, rather, have a servant feed you. And in most cases, that servant will keep feeding you until you burst, or until you use the magic word: bas.

Then there are the people with whom you get rides: rickshaw drivers, "tuk-tuk" drivers, etc. Most of them can get you to where you want to go just by reading the numbers on a sheet of paper, and they'll go left and right with a hand gesture. But if you want to get off the rickshaw upon arrival? Better learn the word bas. It's a grammatical nightmare, but it works.

And, of course, you can't walk anywhere in the city without someone asking you for money, whether they're trying to sell you something or they're begging. I know what you're thinking, just give the beggars a quarter or two, right? But it doesn't work that way here. Although I can't understand what they're saying, I'm told that many beggars ask for a specific amount (like those people at the bus stops in Columbus who ask for “32 cent” or “47 cent”), that it's often inordinate, and they're very, very insistent (following and grabbing on to you). The sales people (including rick drivers) are even worse, following me as if I'll change my mind an pull out an American dollar or two. Once again, the magic word, bas, has a special power that no amount of arm waving or hastened walking has.

3. “The Heat is On”

This one gets stuck in my head almost every time I eat something even slightly spicy here. It conjures up good memories of Eddie Murphy dangling from the back of a truck in the world's slowest chase scene.  I'm not complaining.

Now, about Indian food. I've honestly considered moving to India just because I don't want to miss the food; it's that good. Kumal (the house's servant) is from South India, so his food tends to have that excellent kick that I love. It's not quite as spicy as I expected, presumably because we're in the North, but I still find little green chilli slices in all of my favorite dishes and there's a bottle of Maggi Sweet and Hot (I love you. Come to America with me.) attending me by the table.

When I first arrived, Auntie seemed quite worried about what to serve me. “Sam (the previous volunteer living with her) didn't take any spice. I didn't know what to do!” she exclaimed with a worried look. “I want to eat what you normally eat,” I told her, to which she responded with a look of polite disbelief. So over the first few days of my stay, she seemed to be testing my palate, and the dishes got increasingly more satisfying as she continued to turn up the heat. Now I feel a bit robbed when I don't get at least a bit of spice with my meal.

I dread going back to the food I used to eat; I haven't craved American food once (with the exception of the time when a someone special teased me with thoughts of Buffalo chicken, a favorite). I also feel no real loss from the absence of meat. I thought that I would miss it as much as if someone had stolen my baby, but these days I actually choose veg dishes when given the option. It might be something to do with seeing molting hens in wire cages by the road side and lazy cows in the road.

4. “I Feel Pretty (and Witty and Bright!)”

I have two full Indian outfits now, but I still feel a bit like a little girl playing dress-up when I wear them. The fact that I had to borrow Auntie's scarf and jewelry to go to the wedding doesn't help; I really feel like a little girl stomping around in her mother's spacious high heels while clumsily putting on bright red lipstick. And like that little girl, I feel nervous and a little bit embarrassed that I'll get caught.

So, thus far I'm sticking pretty closely to my jeans and tees. But we'll see. 

-2/22 

Haridwar/Rishikesh I: Another Pilgrimage, Another Affair with Mother India

1. And We, We Took the Road Less Traveled (And That Has Made All the Difference)

 

C.S. Lewis once said: “The safest road to hell is the gradual one - the gentle slope, soft underfoot, without sudden turnings, without milestones, without signposts.”

A Common Sight in Traffic

So it only makes sense that the road we took on our pilgrimage to the holy cities of Rishikesh and Haridwar should be exactly the opposite (except for the bit about milestones and signposts). We leave the house early Wednesday morning, like good pilgrims, this time to the holy cities along the great river of India, the Ganga, whose waters are so sacred that people flock from all sides of the country and of the world for a chance to bathe in her (and, bravely, take a sip!). 

India is a grand balancing act of diametric opposites, two extremes which, like sides of a coin, need each other for their very survival. So it was to be expected that our second pilgrimage should show all signs of being the inverse of our first, Amritsar. To Amritsar (a Sikh pilgrimage) our driver was Hindu, to Haridwar (a Hindu pilgrimage) he was Sikh. The first was two hours late; the second half hour early. The first drove as if there was a bomb under the car that was triggered by deceleration; the second seemed to be meditating on the way, casually stopping for roadside chai (the greatest Indian pastime/addiction).

Overloaded bicycle

As the sun rises over India, we begin our pilgrimage. It starts with a spontaneous round of a game I like to call “What did you just call that?” The rules are fairly simple: one of us says a word that the other doesn't recognize, and we both get to learn what those crazy Brits(/Africans/non-resident Indians)/Americans call everyday things. Today it is star jumps (jumping jacks), but other days it has been candy floss (cotton candy), jumper (sweater), and maybe a dirty word or two (I mean, etc). Comparing notes about life is one of the best things about spending time with someone from another country; it helps you to realize just how bizarre and arbitrary your own culture seems.

Pilgrims walk to the Ganga

Indian roads took me by shock from day one, they have the same chaotic quality of migration that you see in those documentaries about leaf-cutter ants, in which a stream of ants rapidly make their way back and forth, crawling over each other in the process. But the road to Haridwar is unlike anything I've ever experienced. It takes a little over four hours to make the 200km (120 miles) journey by car and is truly a trek through India- in every sense. 

 

The journey begins quietly, our driver sailing through the streets of Chandigarh, which are nearly empty at this hour, save those huddled and bundled commuters waiting for the bus. We pass through Ambala, a small city, and back out into the country side, where fields of wheat, sugar cane, yellow wildflowers, and orchards fly by the windows. As we travel, the road gets more narrow, more bumpy. Cows, the (bigger, uglier... I mean, holier, um, more enlightened) squirrels of India become a more and more frequent sight until at last we have to begin to make stops to allow them to cross. Water buffalo pull heavy carts, mouths open with the exertion. The men who drive them look as though it was they who had been pulling the carts all their lives: skinny and drawn, world-weary.

A bridge is closed, so our car bounces across an ancient, tiny footbridge over a teal river. At times, the pavement has been worn away, leaving road of only dirt and dust. We pass cars and trucks turned and flipped over on the side of the road, and patiently wait for our turn to drive around a mound of wood-chips, a load spilled by one unlucky truck which tipped over.  As we get closer to our destination, monkeys begin to appear, large tan macaques; we serve to avoid squishing them. About half-way through the journey, we begin to spot the other pilgrims; people taking the trek by foot, usually without shoes, carrying ornate burdens as sacrifices to the Ganga. Some of them are fifty or sixty miles away still.

Mountains begin to rise in the distance: the Himalayas. These are only the foothills, but to someone who grew up in the Appalachians, these are mountains in themselves. Then, suddenly, nestled into the side of the mountain along a wide teal-gray river, is Haridwar, sitting serenely and colorfully. A gigantic statue of Shiva, god of destruction (from whose head the river is said to originate) looms over the scene, his hand in the “Fear Not” mudra (hand gesture). He is the ultimate aesthetic, the paramount religious renunciant, after whom the many sadhus along the river devise themselves. And here he is, eternally standing along the beloved Ganga.

We go off in search of an ashram (religious dormitory, the stitch-work of a trip to India) which we can call home for the next few days.  

2. Setting Up Camp

The driver takes us through Haridwar, stopping at a lovely ashram, with a highly decorated courtyard and a clean and homey feel. Any guesses why we didn't stay there? 

That's right, racial profiling. 

This isn't my first problem with racism. I was nearly prevented from seeing the India-Pakistan Border by a grumpy guard, and I've been taken out of a crowd at an entrance for a "random" bag check (although my purse was dead flat and clearly only carrying my wallet). It's almost always people with authority: cops, guards, the ilk, which is quite a problem in a country in which each movie-goer is given a full-body pat-down before entering the cinema. On average, I don't really feel as though there's too much racism directed at me. But this time, it was a little costly. 

"He says no foreigners" Virali translates. "They do fishy things with the rooms and harm their things." 

Okay. From my appearance, it's very clear that I'm not a prostitute, drug dealer, or into anything wild an' crazy. The man at the door smirks at me and we turn away to leave. 

Yes, that's a mini-door. No, I don't know why.

Luckily, the staff from the next ashram is quite friendly, and we quickly get a room for about $8 each (per night). The first room he shows us has no hot water and an Indian toilet; the next a Western toilet (which, we learn, lacks the capability to flush) and four twin mattresses pushed together. No bugs, except maybe for that spider that I resist stomping on (am I really going to kill something in Haridwar? Come on). It takes us about twenty minutes to rig all the windows locked, and then a few more trying to figure out how to lock the door. The key, it seems, is to both push with all our might at the same time while one of us slides the lock upwards. The theme becomes: hope you don't have to pee in the middle of the night, because I'm not getting up to help you open the door. I wake up early the first morning (around 4am) to the sound of the rowdy pilgrims in the alley outside our window; it sounds like a party (maybe this is what the sadhus do at night to maintain their serene composures during the day).  I realize where I am, and have one of those moments in which I let lose a mental "Ewwwwwwwwwww" and peel off the blanket. 

The building our ashram is in.

We're staying in a grimy Indian ashram. We should be devastated, right? Write up a terrible review for some website? Huff and puff?

We spend the whole time laughing over the place, over our grunting as we push closed the door, over devising a way to minimize touching the linens, over squeezing out a tiny side door to use the public toilet, over the experience. 

I wouldn't change a thing.

3. One Minute In India

I've come to realize that no matter how much I tell you about my travels in India, nothing comes close to the experience of seeing it. So I've taken this video of the roadside in one small town; I'll admit, I can do better (and promise I will) but for now, I thought you might like to see a little bit of what I saw along the roadside on the voyage. 

You're in luck, my friends, because I'm fairly certain this is the only minute in India that I've spent on the road in which I haven't seen a man urinating. 

 

Why India Can't Possibly Be Real

Indian Tardis

India- its like a dream. Everything is kind of the same, but then something happens that makes you realize that you're in the matrix. -Alan (Volunteer from Patiala)

1. Glitches in the Matrix 

There are many, many opportunities for double takes here in India, and it's times like these when you question the reality of the world you live in. Seeing a horse (with sleigh bells, nonetheless) -drawn cart carrying an old sadhu looking figure and a bale of hay down a highway is one of those moments. Another is when a random shopper in the market realizes that there's no one at the register to sell you toothpaste, jumps behind the counter and gives you change from his own pocket (true story, folks).

Then, off course, there are those moments when you realize the sign you're reading isn't quite right. I went to get on a rickshaw the other day, and the driver had reupholstered the seat with an advertisement for Connect Phone services. The advertisement shows a smiling woman, with the slogan "The Better Way to Connect: STD" (a type of Indian phone booth) in large letters. Not a seat I was very eager to sit on.

2. Public Displays of Affection

Yes, they exist here, but not as you think. You're really not going to find a man and a woman holding hands, hugging, or kissing in public very often in India, even if they're husband and wife. What is common, however, is intragender pda. That's right, heterosexual men (and women) holding hands, hugging, holding each other by the waist, leaning on each other's shoulders as a sign of affection and friendship. I had to take this photo because I find that no matter who I tell about this, they don't really believe it.  Well, there you go. 

3. Why my Vodafone is Going to be the Death of Me

A drop of blood? Is that a threat?

Shortly after I arrived here, Pratima lent me an Indian cell phone, and now I'm successfully on the grid. However, my vodafone is quite a bit different than anything I've had before, and the two of us have a tentative relationship. When I first received it, I had no idea how to turn off the massive amount of text messages I was receiving- cricket scores, Bhagavad Gita trivia questions, astrology, etc. Once that was sorted, I started getting these calls, often right after class, in which a woman yelled at me in Hindi. It was quite abrasive and a little scary, and there was no response to my "sorry, sorry," before I hung up.

It took me until the middle of the second day to realize that these calls were a recording. 

I was skyping with Daniel the other day, and my phone went off. I promptly ignored it, a bit afraid of the scary Hindi yelling recording. Daniel's reaction? "Is that a sitar playing the nokia tune?"   

Maybe it's just because I'm in India that everything seems Indian.

4. Musical Horns

One of the first things you have to get used to in India is the traffic (even if you're not driving), and this includes the way that drivers communicate with each other. First of all, the turning light here apparently means "you should go that way" rather than "I'm turning that way." Drivers use it to tell other cars to get over, something that's hard to believe until you see. 

Then there are the horns. I've ridden in some cars/rickshaws where it's a wonder when they actually take their hands off the horn. Most of them honk without any real reason, and the pattern of honking is a bit individualized. From what I've gathered, the horn most often means, "Look out, I'm drivin' here:" really nothing more than a greeting to the other cars, almost like dogs sniffing each other. 

"The more you honk the safer you are," jokes Leon. "Sometimes, when I'm in my car, I'll honk to music." 

5. Critters

There's nothing like seeing a monkey, parrot, tiny black squirrel, or minuscule hummingbird to remind you that you're not in Kansas anymore.  So far, the only monkeys I've seen have been through the protective glass of a car or bus, an experience which is only slightly more satisfying than Disney's Animal Kingdom Safari. The kids obviously sense my excitement about the local fauna, because they run to me and point when they see something interesting, like a parrot.

It's the ones that you're already used to that really mess with your head, like the stray dogs and feral cats. Every so often, I'll be walking down the street, almost trip over a slumbering dog, and only then realize, "hey, there's a dog here. There shouldn't be a dog here." You've really got to readjust your thinking to get used to the strays. No, don't feed them. No, don't pet them. Take a wide berth. Yes, they're cute, but they're not pets anymore. Just think of them like that crazy homeless veteran you saw downtown; you can want to help, but don't touch because he bites.

Oop, there's a cow. A herd of goats, sheep. It's very odd the stuff that becomes normal when you're living in India. It really is all like one massive dream, where the absurdity of the elements are overcome by a sense of bizarre logic.

Hauman Mania!!!

6. Here is the Church, Here is the Steeple...

As a westerner in India, I'm much more aware of those National Geographic-type photo ops. A perfect picturesque mandir (Hindu temple) rises above some simple flats, and I'm floored. Wow, this is the stuff from the movies! A short time later, it gets a bit odd when I haven't seen a gorgeous mandir in a while (what's wrong with this part of town?).  I've been saying this for some time now, but I just can't stress enough how prominent the divine is here. You simply can't go anywhere without seeing something religious, something sacred, looking back at you.

For Indians, I'm sure it's just a background theme of mundane life. Yes, I'm surrounded by divine imagery. Okay, there's a massive Hanuman (monkey lord) right behind me, so what? I watch a storekeeper makes a little prayer and ritual gesture when he turns on his lights. What was that? Nothing, nothing. Just turning on the lights.




7. Where Can I Get Some Q-Tips Around Here? 

34 Market

Shopping is actually quite a skill, and requires quite a bit of know-how. While it's relatively easy to find a market, it's much more difficult to find what you need in a new place. Stores are arranged in rows, something like a strip-mall meets a boardwalk, and each store is roughly 1/3 the size of my current bedroom. What's more, stores are arranged into these markets, which generally carry only one type of item. There's a market for groceries, a market for dairy, one for meat, one for auto parts, another for banks. It's the classic end of the universe Starbucks across from a Starbucks scenario, where it seems like no one can be making any money. But it somehow works. You tell one store clerk what you need, he'll point you to another store. The end result is something like an open-air department store; the key is to find out which market you need in the first place.



8. Money Can't Buy Me Love

Even though most Indians who are selling me goods and services don't think so, I'm actually quite getting used to the money system here. Before I realized it, I was haggling left and right over 10 or 20 cents, and angrily storming off when someone charged me an extra quarter. The key is not to convert it; don't think about how much you're spending in US dollars, because it will almost always seem incredibly cheap and you'll be ripped off. The 500 rupee bill ($10) is so useless in day to day life that it might as well be a $50 bill.

Okay, so it looks like I'm being a tightwad. But it's not about keeping the extra dimes and quarters, it's about the fun of haggling and earning the right to say that I'm not just living in India, I'm living in India.  It's a constant test of character and ability and quite a fun challenge. You can't give them what they ask for at first, a) because it's outrageous and a bit rude and b) because they'll leave the table upset, a haggling opportunity lost, wondering if they could have gotten more.

I'll get prices like 80 rupees for something that costs 25, and it's up to me to show whether or not I'm just a vapid American target.

Nay, nay, nay 80? I laugh and start to walk away.

Okey, 40.

Nay. 25.

25?

Yes.

Nay, 30.

Sigh. Okay.

9. One Thing That I May Never Get Used To

Seeing a Sikh man, a great lion, without his turban.

This is something that actually revealed to me how acculturated I've become thus far. I've grown very accustomed to seeing Sikh men sporting their excellent turbans everywhere- this is Punjab, after all- but I had never before seen one without the turban on. Traditionally Sikhs grow out their meticulously groomed hair, pinning it in in a bun at the top of the head. It wasn't until I spent a night in Patiala and saw the Colonel with his turban off that I realized how alarming it would be.

When I saw him, I literally stopped in my tracks and stumbled a bit. I felt as though I had seen my grandfather naked.

Sir?

No Reason to Get Excited...

There's nothing better than music (I should probably just end the sentence there) to cure homesickness or to get you into the spirit of a place. Indian music is a surefire way for me to feel surrounded by the reality of where I am, and youtube is a savior for when I want a little taste of home.

Just a little note to all you future vagabonds- don't forget to bring some music (and a towel).

Hare Krishna!!

In my quest to get to know both the heart and spirit of India, I'm visiting as many temples as possible. Today, Virali and I visited the Chandigarh ISKCON Temple (International Society for Krishna Consciousness).

Come on, you've heard of them. Remember that time when the Beetles got a little bit further out? Remember this song?

ISKCON is one of the most popular Eastern religions in the US, as well as the UK, Europe, etc, etc. If you've seen the movie Airplane! you probably remember that scene with the happy dancing people in the airport with flowers.

Well, it's kind of like that.

Krishna and Gopi Dolls in Auntie's House

ISKCON is the religion to beat in terms of ceremonial fun. Their most popular ritual is a combination of music, singing, and dancing (from swaying up to what I call a "happy mosh pit"). At the heart of it all is the Hindu god Krishna, the fun-loving, mischievous, and lovable deity that might best be called the real “Lord of the Dance.” In his mythology, he's most frequently found playing pranks or dancing with the Gopis (female sheepherds); in one story he manifests many copies of himself so that each Gopi can dance with him. In the same way, each devotee can have a close, personal relationship with Krishna; he dances with each one. 

Krishna is an easy god to love, an easy character to love.  Due to ISKCON's reading of the Bhagavad Gita, he's viewed as the top god, the ultimate manifestation of the divine.

Quite a nice shrine (click to enlarge)

So as with other mandirs, people come to ISKCON centers to be close to Krishna. In my earlier post I described darsan, the act of seeing and being seen between deity and devotee. People come not only to worship, but to actually be with Krishna, to be seen by him. To express their love for him in a place where he has been asked to reside.

We arrive and go through some of the basic rituals of Hinduism: touching the threshold, prostrating, donating, more bowing, etc. We take a place toward the back of the crowd, to the right (women are seated in front of the goddess Radha), near the old women. The crowd sways and sings the chants, accompanied by a chant leader, (Indian versions of) hand drums, symbols, and various other instruments. At the front, a priest is making offerings to Krishna and his beloved Radha, then turning around to offer the items to those below. The crowd eagerly put hands into the air, palms toward the gifts. A burning oil lamp, water, flowers, incense smoke, on and on. A woman carries the burning lamp through the crowd, letting us ritually warm our hands and sweep the heat to our faces and over the crowns of our heads.
 

Prabhupada

What I love most about these Krishna houses is the mood; it's almost always cheery and as the ritual continues, grows more and more excited. I start to sing and sway along as the leader comes to a chant I know (Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna... thank you George Harrison). The life-like statue of Prabhupada, the Guru responsible for the spread of Krishna Consciousness, watches on. Occasionally it's a bit too lifelike and somewhat startling out of the corner of my eye. He always looks so very serious for someone who got to hang out with the Beetles. 

The band becomes more and more excited, moving among the men, inciting them to dance. The party takes off marching and dancing, via a back hallway circling the shrine . Circling Krishna, as the priest did with the offerings: Krishna, our lives revolve around you. 

From the shrine room, it sounds like the neighbors are having a party.

Tulsi

We circle and pause to round the tulsi plant, a living embodiment of Krishna. From a kettle, we're offered water to drink and put on the crowns of our heads, as well as sweet milk. That's one thing about India: it's nearly impossible to enter a building without being offered something for your gullet. 

As we sit in the shrine room, a toddler is playing nearby. This is one of the things that makes ISKCON such a nice environment; there are nearly always small children playing and dancing during these ceremonies. There are many stories in the Krishna mythology about the childhood of the deity; his young, rambunctious, mischievous childhood form is loved and revered. The child runs over to us and does a little baby form of a prostration: down on her knees, face to the floor, hands in front. The mother cracks up. It seems as though we laugh forever. 

As we're leaving, I ask Virali what was different from the way Hindus worship. "Everything!" she laughs. 


____

There's a Krishna House in most every city in the US, as well as many other places, so if you get a chance to visit one, never pass it up. It's incredibly fun and very tolerant; ISKCON Centers frequently are religious homes to people from incredibly diverse backgrounds, ethnicities, etc, and you don't have to worry about being converted (against your will, that is).

 

It felt a bit rude to take a video of the going-ons, but here's one I took before. It's a Hare Krishna Festival on the National Mall (Washington DC) on July 4th, 2010. 

And if you're eager to hear more, here's George Harrison singing "My Sweet Lord," in which the background singing turns to the Hare Krishna mantra (towards the end).

 

The Indian Wedding Season 2: Two Weddings and a Funeral.

1. I Now Pronounce You Sikh and Hindu.

The first ceremony of the day will be a Sikh one (I'm still trying to determine if it's closer to “sick” or “seek,” as in, “Dang, you look Sikh in that turban”). The groom is from a Sikh family, the bride from a Hindu one, so today is going to be Weddingpalooza, with a ceremony at four and then another one at night. Apparently, this is only the tip of the iceberg, as these weddings usually have events that last up to a week. It's to be expected, of course, because it's the Wedding Season here, that time of year when you can see the marriage fireworks on any given night (mystery solved).

After asking directions from various rickshaw drivers and pedestrians, we finally make it to a short distance away from the Gurudwara (Sikh Temple). The Colonel pulls over the car and waits.

A little bit more Indian time later, and the rest of the groom's family is on their way, creating a caravan of cars which successfully announces the glory of this young husband-to-be.

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We arrive at a simple but pleasant Gurudwara and leave our shoes at the check counter. While we wait in the courtyard, the bride, in an extraordinarily heavy and ornate get-up, delicately makes her way into the temple. I get a bit worried that we're missing the ceremony, and then remember Indian time. When we eventually take our seats, heads covered, nothing has been missed.

The Ceremony itself is quick and a bit of a blur. We're sitting cross-legged on the left side of the floor with the rest of the women and all around are members of the video and photo team with incredibly bright lights. So, needless to say, for a lot of the ceremony those lights were directed right at us; it was something akin to the experience I expect people have after they die. Don't go into the light...

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Under the many layers of cloth at the front center of the room, in a shrine I often described as similar to a small covered casket, the holy man took out pages from the holy book and began reading. Singing, chanting, a little light music, and the couples circle the shrine slowly, the bride being lead by a semi-transparent cloth pinned to her groom.

It's all terribly nice, terribly reverent, and terribly quick. All in all, a good wedding. Walking back out into the courtyard for the reception, I ponder where I can wipe the oil on my hand from the prasad (a gooey food offering that I'm growing accustomed to).

The reception is casual and simple; paneer sandwiches, coffee, juice, small talk. The people around me are dressed somewhat simply and it's all very relaxed.

Little did I know what was awaiting me.

2. The Hindu Extravaganza! (I mean, Wedding).

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Hindu weddings, I'm told, are organized temporally by an astrologer, who(it seems) almost always predicts that the couple should be married in the middle of the night. After saying goodbye to the Colonel and wife, we're in Leon's safe hands. We find a hotel; relax for a while. It's going to be a long night.

We finally arrive just outside the wedding around 10pm, where the groom's family and friends are again amassing in preparation for a glorious entrance. The Groom is playing the role of debonair Indian Prince atop a blind-folded and decorated white steed as the rest of us gather around. He smiles a bit forcedly (although his eyes reveal he's actually quite pleased) and points to the sky, giving the photographers their opportunity. A brass band makes up the center of the crowd, and servants carry lanterns along the side. We're coming together in the middle of the road, so cars irritatedly drive by. Marking our destination, circular fireworks light every so often in the distance. 

In time, we start to march toward the reception; march isn't the right word, but it's the first one that comes to mind (please don't sue me, Chuck Palanuik). It's more of a dance, trot, stop type of movement. Every so often, whether in a ritualized behavior or out of the sheer pleasure of it, the center of the crowd stops just before the prince and begins to dance. Good natured, he throws up his arms and joins in from time to time.

We arrive at the site of the wedding, only to find that our entrance is being blocked by the family of the bride. The groom steps forward, offering money for admittance, being ceaselessly teased by the family with plates of food. He must have done something right, because eventually the teasing stops and we move forward.

We're all slowly traveling through what feels like a tunnel of flowers and dangling lights. We emerge to find ourselves in a wide-open space filled with all the accessories that make a good party: disco-light dance floor and tons and tons of food.

Near the front, patriarchs and other important guests are posing for pictures, wishing away bad spirits by circling each others heads with money and tossing it into the air. Lucky servants bend to pick up the discards. 

It doesn't take long (maybe 10 yards) before the feeding starts. Platters of finger foods and little tooth-picks start surrounding us, and it's all quite yummy. After a minute or two, the number of servers begins to quickly out-pace the number of munching guests; at first I thought they were chasing Alan, a volunteer from Patiala, who despite his trimness has a voracious appetite visible from a mile away. After a while, I realized just how many servers there were; there were easily one for each guest. “Ma'am?” they ask me, holding a tray. One or two look disappointed if you turn them away; some insistently try to top the nibblet with sauce for you.

We back away from the food only to find another entire row behind us. Dinner, I think. Filling up my plate with favorites like daal and papri chaat (a dish I will never turn down), I stand and munch with the others, who aren't the least bit eager to sit down at one of the tables. A bit confused, I finish my food, satisfied.

I follow the others indoors, only to find that this is where "the real" dinner will be served. Unable to handle any more, I sit down with the other women and have a cup of coffee while Leon, Alan, and various other men mysteriously disappear. It turns out that although Hindus don't drink at Weddings, Sikhs drink at Hindu weddings. It's only a short time before they're “in the spirit,” and enjoying themselves out on the dance floor.

It's probably important for me to mention that this is not a wedding reception. This is the wedding. The couple will be having a reception tomorrow in Delhi. We're all just waiting for the ceremony to start (or so I thought).

As I glance around the crowd, I'm exceptionally glad that Auntie rejected my first suit. Everywhere I look is bling (a word I picked up locally); it's sewn onto their clothes, worn on their bodies, hanging from their scarves. Everyone looks terribly rich and elegant. I've also managed to find where the overweight people in India have been hiding. Must be all the weddings.

I head outside to watch the dancing for a while, declining when Leon pulls me to the dance floor (“two drink minimum,” I tell him). Indian people have this wonderful jovial way of dancing, which frequently involves putting the hands up and the feet making little steps, almost like an Indian hokey-pokey.

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Leon grabs the microphone from the DJ and begins to call guests to the dance floor. This is the first time I've met him, and I find him a bit disarming. He's terribly genuine, open, cheerful, and obviously quite concerned that everyone have a wonderful time. He's also quite tall, so his salmon-colored turban and jolly face peer out over the crowd as he says a little rhyme before calling each person out onto the floor.

All danced out, everyone moves inside for the sit-down dinner; the bride and groom look content, if a bit exhausted, at the table next to ours.

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By this time, it's quarter to one, and we all start filing out. The bride and groom greet us by the door, and behind us very few guests remain. I'm told that the next three hours will be formal ceremony, something which only those most dedicated family and friends will see tonight.

Back at the Dreamz Hotel, in a room which we barganed down $3 in about twenty minutes, I dream about flowers and dangling lights. 

Oh, and I was lying about the funeral. Made you read!  

Thanks to Erika for the beautiful pictures on this post! See more at: http://erikajake.blogspot.com/