Pune Finale

Tonight is my last night in Pune, and here are the top 8 things (ranked not by importance, but rather, by nepotism) I will miss about it:

1. chuha—I drink tea (with milk and sugar, sometimes with other goodness) at least twice a day, usually more. At school, around four-thirty, at somebody’s house, etc. I am usually drinking tea in the morning before my eyes adjust enough to read the Times of India. Actually, I’m just going to miss

2. Mornings in general—I wake up, do some yoga exercises in my room (sometimes) that my baba taught me while listening to soothing music. I do the yoga on my tile floor which has a thin hemp rug which always moves when I do yoga on it. Then I put on my favorite pants in the world, my morning pj pants (I recently bought my new favorite shorts in the world at Big Bazaar [guess what that is]—stretchy, breathable, cotton, maroon, and wholly loveable). I have my #1 while reading the smut gossip about American actresses across from the I-can’t-believe-this-is-how-they-perceive-America headlines and the news about Indian politics that I don’t understand. After a half hour of that, I hop to the bathroom where I have my bucket shower. My bucket shower involves a big bucket where the water from the bath spigot pours into and my plastic measuring cup that I use to pour onto my arms, and stuff. By the time I get out of the shower and get all my stuff for school ready, breakfast is ready. Breakfast (see #6) is usually either some sort of grain with spices and a few veggies or a bread omelet. But I always have Bourn Vita, the Indian equivalent to Ovaltine, and with a better name (to me Ovaltine=octogenarian). On my way out of the apartment complex, this one guard and I have begun to say “Namaskar” as many times as we can to each other while I pass by. He only speaks Hindi, so that’s about as far as we get. Then I ride three kilometers on my mountain bike to Laura’s place, and proceed to school via

3. Rickshaws—or more specifically, being able to communicate with them. I am going to miss my tariff card, which tells me exactly what to pay from the meter. I will also miss knowing how to get around Pune, and arguing in Marathi with the rickshaw walas about price or where to turn or where they have change. In fact, I’m just going to miss speaking in

4. Marathi—It’s a tough language. Don’t get me wrong, at this point, when I am supposed to be at my most fluent, I understand about 60-70% of what is being said in a casual conversation. Serious conversations, that number drops like my ability to speak Spanish has over the past couple months (today I forgot how to say hello, still don’t remember). And my speaking ability is usually limited to three-word sentences. Nevertheless, Marathi has been a comfort to learn, whether on the street and quasi-spying on Indians because they think you don’t understand, or at home with

5. My Host Parents—they are great people. I have come to learn that my aai is really funny. She is really sarcastic all the time and has good facial expressions. My baba, the more loquacious one, does not have that same funny bone. His jokes remind me of my late paternal grandfather’s (A.K.A. bad). The three of us have become addicted to “Kaun Banega Crorepati” (Indian “Who Wants to be a Millionare”) with the main man of Bollywood himself, Amitabh Bachchan. At 68, he still can pull of a toupee like when he was able to at 48. His baritone voice and pleasant demeanor make watching the show (though in Hindi, but the questions are written in English) really enjoyable. We always watch “Crorepati” over dinner, adding further to the splendor that is

6. My aai’s cooking—She is a really good cook, even by Indian standards. The bhajis are always flavorful, the dal is always salty and spicy, the rice, piping hot, and the chutneys, a perfect cool yet savory flavoring to make any dish that much better. Also, she makes the following food items from scratch: curd, butter, ghee (concentrated butter), mango pickle (a mango pickled with red chilies and oil), lemon pickle, green chili pickle, (unknown Indian fruit) pickle, chhapatis, dosas, and then the actual dishes. All of that, plus whatever I want for breakfast: pohe, kichhri, upma, dosas, eggs any style, toast, etc. Sometimes I come home for lunch, which is a treat because the food is freshly made, and Pushbab, my aai’s cook (more like sous chef), is there. She and Nirmala, the cleaning lady, don’t speak a lick of English, but it is still nice to say Namaskar to them. Nirmala speaks very quickly and always assumes I speak more Marathi than I do (P.S. they call them servants here). Speaking of Marathi disparities,

7. ACM—Associated Colleges of the Midwest, a floor or a building located near “midtown” Pune. We American students would arrive every morning for two classes, usually finished by about 1:30, then go out to lunch at a local joint called Baba Food Mall, and then return for the rest of the day to do work there (free internet!). Tukaram and Subhan bring us tea and their warm personas as Anjou tells us about our next travel excursion while Shruti makes sure the bureaucracy will let us. Sucheta, the program coordinator and Marathi teacher, leaves in the early afternoon, but not before she helps us with anything we need. It has kind of become my daytime home.

8. Everything that has become mine—I will miss what I have called my own for the past couple of months. Maharashtra, my state, Pune, my city, Baner, my part of town, Blossom ‘N’ Springs, my apartment complex, Patrakar Nagar, my school’s street, Baba Food Mall, my lunch joint, Marathi, my language, Barista, my coffee shop, my route to school, my morning rickshaw crew, my drug store where I get chocolate, my bicycle, my part of the street where goats sit in the middle of the road like a goat island, majhya aai and baba, my bed.

I’m leaving all that tomorrow. I'm going to miss it. It is the end of program time in India and the beginning of my time in India. I have my books to read, my things to write, and my sites to see, my people with which to travel, my trains to catch, that is all.

Happy Late Thanksgiving, Happy Hannukah, Merry Christmas, and Happy New Year. While I’m sad to be missing all of these things with the people that I love, I am looking forward to another adventure. I miss you all, but at the end of the day, there are sometimes when a man must smell at his own pace.

Two Weeks as a Tourist

When we foreigners think of India we think of North India. I know it’s a generalization but I’m going to just stick to it. I was a tourist for two weeks, not knowing more than a speck of Hindi, trying to not speak Marathi like a boyfriend trying to not tell his girlfriend he is breaking up with her because she is freaking crazy. I felt that mixture of comfort and confusion that one gets the first time traveling to California or Chicago—I think that means I really like Pune. I know I missed it on the trip.

I love the trains. I think I already said that. But we went by train from Mumbai to Jaipur and it was thirty pleasant hours. We played lots of Euchre.

I decided not to take a blanket from my Aai because I did not want to lose/dirty it. Instead I took my bath towel I had been using as a blanket. Not beach towel, bath. Observe the difference in size next time you go to the bathroom at the beach. And I was cold on the train. Still a little damp from the previous day’s shower, my bath towel covered my legs and feet like a rain tarp, while I relied upon my hoodie for upper body warmth. It was not optimal.

That night on the train as I curled up under my wee-sized blanket while my arms began to tingle, I could not help but hear the chaiwalas (tea vendors) rush by our compartment all through the night. Their voices are distinct, and anybody who goes on the train recognizes their nasal, monotonous, croak that invades your ears like a certain crocodile’s despised ticking clock. While trying to sleep it invades, but during the day it is a welcome, if demented, bird call for any thirsty train-traveler in need of milky, sugary warmth.

Other walas sell various deep-fried snacks or crunchy delights like behl, a mixture of Chex-Mix like crunchies, onions, tomatoes, cilantro, and a masala. Freaking great. Most Indians seemed to have brought their own packed lunches in stacked circular tins, which I am told keep the food warm quite well.

We went through Gujarat, a flatter, yet equally verdant version of Maharashtra. To be honest I was a bit afraid of leaving Maharashtra, especially leaving Marathi, which by this point has become a bit of a security blanket (or towel considering my proficiency). I sat on the floor near the train door looking out, dangling my feet outside the train, clutching my flip-flops to my feet with my toes so they would not fly off. Rajasthan, especially as we got closer to Jaipur, was a desert. With bushy, green shrubs dotting a pale, dry earth, I began to think of my American expectations of India and the Wes Anderson movie The Darjeeling Limited. I saw vast pastures trimmed with rows of trees below miniature mountains that usually had a little temple on top. I had trouble reading.

We arrived in Jaipur and the first thing I noticed was that they have big rickshaws to accommodate tourists’ luggage. Maybe that’s because walas wait outside the train station as voraciously as stockbrokers on the trading floor. Our hotel was outside the old Pink City, as Jaipur is nicknamed; it was close to the brand-new movie theatre that resembled one of Kansas City’s curling irons that decorate the skyline.

Our hotel was newly remodeled and more expensive than what we all wanted to spend. Really we ended up spending a lot of money in Jaipur. It’s no wonder it is part of Indian tourisms’ Golden Triangle (Delhi and Agra the other points). The first thing we did was go to the city. It was painted for the visiting Mughal prince to resemble more northern rocks. I can’t remember beyond that, but I do remember thinking that, not to be an ingrate or anything, it wasn’t that pink. Really more red-brown, and even that color was only on the facades of some of the streets in the old city. It was not the sea of pink I had imagined. Nevertheless, Jaipur is a very charming metropolis, a tourist and shopping must-see in India.

(Perhaps that is why North India is so touristy, there are about eight cities that are ‘must-sees’: Jaipur, Varanasi, Agra, Delhi, Jodhpur, Udaipur, Shimla, and Amritsar.)

We saw gigantic sun-dials and various sun-based scientific measuring machines that I did not understand but knew were really cool, if only for their aesthetics. We saw a palace in Jaipur that was more of a wall—it looked like an earth-toned painting of a city on a mountain—with rows of arches and small windows. The top floor had a viewing gallery for the royal harem that was modestly cloaked in the Islamic fashion with ornate granite micro-windows that from the outside looked like an impenetrable wall.

The next day we went with Hani to the Amber Fort, met Mike, and rode an elephant. Hani and Lucky were our rickshaw walas for the day. Hani called himself Tikki-Tikki-Boom-Boom, Aisha Shakira, me Brad Pitt, and Sam either Prince Charles or Madonna. Sam was his favorite. Hani was a smooth talker, a real schmoozer, a fluent English speaker with a bold and friendly sense of humor and an I’ll-take-care-of-you sensibility. He made us feel comfortable and made us feel like we were saving money, which we probably were not. I called him Aamir Khan because Tikki-Tikki-Boom-Boom seemed weird.

First he took us to the Amber Fort, which occupied our morning. I think I remembered seeing it briefly in a movie once and I had one of those moments. Those moments that amaze me that I am in India, which regenerate me to the fact that I am far from home. Whereas otherwise I could just be in a weird city in the States, being in front of a colossal, Mughal fort whose tan turrets and intrepid walls makes me remember how much lava is between me and Kansas City. I explored it mostly at my own pace, exploring the complex with curiosity and wonder. And curiosity not just toward the countless Mughal archways, the elegant, gemmed-encrusted rooms (only a few), the steep and mysterious stairs, and familiar modest look-outs with granite windows—the people watching was magnificent! The surplus of foreigners—especially when Jurisprudence told me he saw a Royals hat on a fat, obnoxious American—made me giddy for ironic and for nostalgic purposes. And even the Indian tourists were a delight to watch: groups of adolescents running down the echoing hallways screaming like monkeys, young couples pulling their toddlers around to the next photo-opp, and that one old barefoot woman who seemed to have thrown her walker off the fort’s walls judging by her arched back so that she could walk the Amber Fort’s stairs without bother, one at a time.

At the base of the fort we met an American, traveling all alone, a young guy with curly black hair covered by a baseball cap with a shamrock on it and a black t-shirt with Nepali writing circling the ever-present Om. His name was Mike Chalfan (M.O.T.T., and I guessed it right away) and he was quiet. He had just finished the Peace Corps in Kyrgyzstan—two years, three months of attempting to teach English in a remote, mountainous village, living with a host family. The nearest phone reception was an hour away along with Internet and the single nearest Peace Corps volunteer. The national dish of Kyrgyzstan—he tells us—is lamb fat atop cold noodles and intestines. Otherwise it was buckwheat and anti-septic vodka, every day. He was one of nineteen who finished the two years, and there were sixty-four in the beginning.

Needless to say it makes my study abroad experience seem as familiar as high school. So it was Halloween and we invited him to celebrate with us that night at a Hookah bar. I think the candy and mundane conversation about American culture warmed his spirits a little. Or at least that’s what I wanted for him, he looked disillusioned.

After the Amber Fort we rode an elephant. But more exciting thing was petting and feeding the baby elephant who had vegetable-based, neon paints on his face. I felt kind of important riding the big guy, like Prince Ali, Fabulous He, Ali Ababwa. Except in a rural village in India, not “Saudi Arabia.”

We then went to a textile factory and shop where I bought an awesome blanket! But then I lost it later. I ended up losing a lot of this trip: that blanket, my sunglasses, my camera!, and I think something else.

The next day Madonna, Aamir Khan, and I went to the monkey temple. Climbing up the hill on a zig-zagging road, Sam and I stopped frequently to give one of the hundreds of monkeys on this hill a roasted peanut. It is considered good luck when a small, soft, and precise hand grabs a peanut from your comparably fat and clumsy fingers. Atop the hill was a temple not for a monkey god but for the sun god. A woman living there gave us the schpeal on the temple—older than Jaipur and overlooking the smoggy city—along with string bracelets and yellow bindi. She was pretty.

That day we left Jaipur by train, all of us feeling sour after paying the hotel bill. We stopped in Delhi to change trains, then Kalka. Delhi was really crowded and hectic and Kalka was like musical trains because the operators kept telling us to move. It was not ideal. Finally, after about fourteen hours of travel, half of which on a toy train, we arrived in Shimla, the capital of Himachal Pradesh. Shimla was a British getaway and is now a city on a mountainside, bustling with shopping and restaurants. The air was thinner and colder and we could see a few snow-capped peaks in the far, far distance. We climbed to the top of the Shimla peak, at parts at forty-five degree inclines, where there was a temple for Hanuman, the monkey god. Rightly so, Shimla has more of them than Macalester does squirrels. Or at least they make their presence quite well known, climbing and jumping through neighborhoods and running down streets and eating scraps and fighting dogs. The temple was identifiable from the bottom of the mountain because an orange statue of Hanuman stood above the tree line like I imagine Paul Bunyan did. At the top, monkeys galore.

We ate at a Tibetan hole-in-the-wall below a homeopathy doctors’ office near the Anglican church in Shimla. It had a green sign and a black metal fence reminding me of Ireland (again, I don’t know what I’m talking about) that encircled its one-table patio. The inside, right next to the kitchen/stall, had two plastic tables. The cook prepared Momo’s (Tibetan veg. dumplings), noodles, and a noodle soup. It was my favorite meal on the trip, well perhaps a close second.

We spent the rest of our day and a half in Shimla just walking/trekking around the town, seeing an old British lodge, and trying to buy bus tickets to Aut, our next stop. Getting to Aut was an adventure: you see, in our rush to make our early bus, we got on the wrong one at the hectic and convoluted bus station at Shimla. We had to get off when the operator checked our tickets ten minutes into the ride, go back to the bus station, and wait for the next bus. I almost lost the new tickets twice, and I was ornery.

Finally, we arrived in Aut that night. A friend of our program coordinator, Anju, picked us up. His name is Raju, a resident of Banjar, about an hour from Aut and about twenty minutes from where we were staying. Anju comes here every year because she loves it and I understand why. It was completely isolated, only the Om Shanti hotel and its staff (and the owner’s blonde puppy, Juice), the small town up the road, an old German with a mullet and big earrings, and us. The Om Shanti has about five rooms for rent and is situated in the Kullu Valley between two mountains. We sat by the babbling brook (yes, babbling) and read, ate delicious hotel food, nearly froze to death at night under our two thick comfortors, got lost hiking, and gazed. The valley got dark by about four, the shadow of the mountain chilling the thin air. We even celebrated Diwali there with the staff, drinking cheap whisky and vodka around a campfire while lighting off fireworks a little too close to our hands. It reminded me of the Fourth.

But the best part was the overnight trip we took. The hotel owner is named Lallit and he also takes his guests on treks. He is from the valley, born and raised, and learned English from tourists and his degree in Tourism Studies. He took us to Jaloori Pass, a town of seven buildings atop a ridge. We took a day hike to Ragupur Fort. At the top of the mountain frozen snow hid in the perpetual shadows of autumn. Come winter it will be covered. The fort was above the tree line where the peak was tan with soft grass and little red shrubs. We could see them: five mountains away, yet seemingly edible, the snow-capped Himalayas.

The top of most mountains provokes awe among us humble humans. But these puppies, these kings of the jungle, these white teeth of God were not a piece of the pie—they were the pie. They were amazing only if everything else considered amazing were ordinary. Even the foggy foothills around us and behind us stumped my vocabulary. I had another I-can’t-believe-I’m-here, and we all sat in isolated silence, on our own little peaks, mesmerized as if gazing Earth from the moon. None of us brought our cameras.

We then hiked back through the deciduous, mossy forest to the Pass where we picked up our backpacks and cameras (I bought a cheap film camera in Shimla) and ate lunch—chapattis, boiled eggs (at 3,200 meters!), and cabbage bhaji. We then trekked to our campsite the other direction on the ridge. A black furry dog name Willard followed us to our campsite after Jurisprudence fed it chapatti. The campsite was beside a pond and the remains of a massive rockslide, and near a small circular lake for the goddess of ghee (highly concentrated butter). Lallit and two staff from the hotel set up our dinner and our tents. Self-reliance seemed foreign. They cooked exquisite meals (more boiled eggs!) while we ate around a roaring campfire. We played more Euchre that night in the tent.

The next day Lallit took us grappling down a forty-meter rock face in the valley after we had hiked back. I went first and had to remember to keep leaning back against my instinct to cling to the wall. We met a math professor from the University of Banjar who invited us in for tea next to the grappling rock. He was such a math professor, if you know what I mean.

We left Om Shanti the next night and I was pretty sad to leave. Had I known what we were going to next was like I would have been sadder.

Our bumpy bus dropped us off at the Dharamshala airport at 1:30 am with two taxis. We were delusional after the stressful taxi to Aut, the awkward and long bus ride, and this was the cherry on top. Sam and I were in the taxi with a Japanese tourist named Makoto (?) who worked at a Tex-Mex restaurant in Nagoya. Then the taxi driver put on Enrique Inglesias as we sat waiting for the next bus for “cooking supplies” to take with us. I think Sam and I guffawed for about seven straight sleep-deprived minutes while Makoto and the driver didn’t get the joke and clucked awkwardly. We arrived in McCleodganj, our actual destination, at about three. McCleodganj is where the Dalai Llama and many Tibetan refugees stay, right next to Dharamshala. It is also about a popular tourist destination. In between Jimmy’s Italian kitchen and various coffee shops stood a large Buddhist temple that seemed much more Middle Kingdom Confucian, imperial Great Wall-esque than the Sub continental, poly-limbed deity, elephantine Hinduism I had grown accustomed to. We went to another Buddhist temple, passing by all sorts of white people: yippies, hippies, an emo kid or two, dorky backpackers with high socks inside clear white sandals, and adventurists. I couldn’t help but feel like if a Subaru in San Francisco with a Free Tibet bumper sticker had a Motherland like Russian-Americans do, it would be McCleodganj. Nevertheless, the town was pretty neat. Monks clad with shaved heads in red robes walked the streets in Converse high tops, Merrells, Doc Martins, and even work shoes that looked steel-toed. Inside the Buddhist temple we went to we saw sitting monks watch partners that would ceremonially smack the air until their hand met the other in a violent crack. I didn’t know what the purpose of it was but I can assume it was Buddhist. The entire temple had an aesthetic influence of Chinese simplicity. Large golden gods in glass cases stood in front of wallpaper with fractal patterns of various deities. I spun the Mantra wheels outside the temple like any good tourist should (for good luck, of course), bought a prayer flag set, and called it a day.

That night we met some Westerners living in McCleodganj, most of whom had no time frame as to when they were leaving. They were all very nice and not as stupid or annoying as I had imagined they would be. We had drinks on the roof of the Beer Bar, as it was called, and then danced on its dance floor downstairs.

We left the next day, fine with me, to Amritsar.

On the train we descended back into the plains, into what is known as the breadbasket of India, the Punjab. We met a Portuguese man on our public bus named Choit (with a ch as in challah). He had a fully stuffed backpack, sleeping bag, and all, and another for the day. Choit arrived in India last week and immediately went to McCleodganj. So I would consider the day we met him as his first day in India. Sam and I talked to him on the bus about caste, food, manners, history, religion, language, and the interconnectivity of it all like good liberal arts students. He was voracious for information and we were eager to deliver our knowledge like loquacious professors, so we got along quite well. Anyway, when we arrived in Amritsar, he did not know where to go so he came with us to our hotel. He ended up being number six for the following twenty-four hours. Luckily for him, he had lived in London for two years and was fluent in English but had the occasional Portuguese bend, especially when talking about home. He used a lot of hand sanitizer.

That night we went to the Golden Temple. It is a massive complex, and to enter it one must remove their shoes, wear a head covering (tourists can buy a handkerchief outside it for Rs. 10), wash their hands, and submerge their feet in a shallow bath perpendicular to the walkway, and. No tobacco or alcohol allowed inside or even in the three-kilometer radius of it, for that matter. It is the Mecca, the Western Wall, the Vatican, for Sikhs. If the Golden Temple is the Western Wall, then Amritsar is Jerusalem and the Punjab is Israel.

Entering the complex through a white marble gateway, the complex is surrounded by that same pure marble. On each four entrances are magnificent, circular towers that most gudhwaras (Sikh temples) have that are emblematic to Sikh architecture. Sikhism believes that all religions are equal, and it sought to bridge the Hindu-Muslim gap. The domes do that alone. The marble walls provided the crust for the sprawled, placid square pond and the Golden Temple itself. In the middle of the pond, connected by a grand bridge, the Temple itself is pure 22 carat gold, inside and out. About the size of a two-story cabin, the epicenter of Sikh worship provokes awe and pristine glory. We went inside.

Waiting in line, I noticed the gold, electric fans keeping us cool while we waited below the golden railings. In fact, everything that was not gold was white marble. Inside the Temple it was crowded. What I had thought was recorded music playing from the, you guessed it, golden speakers was actually live. The musicians were playing golden instruments while women and men equally (another important facet of Sikhism: gender equality) sat and listened. The golden railings prevented the visitors, most of who dropped to their knees and bowed with their entire body, from joining the cross-legged audience. The inner walls were golden with some indigo velvet trimmings, only to further accentuate the gold’s intricate designs. The center of worship was a golden sword in golden sheath. The music continued to play and pilgrims continued to file in and offer prayer and a few rupees while I was asked to keep the line moving, out.

The next day we went back for lungar, a cafeteria-style meal provided for free by the Temple, and any Sikh gudhwara, this one is just the most famous. We were immediately given our silver tray, bowl and spoon upon entering. We walked upstairs while waiting to enter because we came during the lunch rush. When we did enter the cafeteria, a brown, three-story building just inside the complex, we sat upon hemp carpets stretching from end to end with rows of people. Servers immediately walked the rows and dished out chapattis, then dal (lentils), then pani (water), then bhat (rice), then the bhaji du jour. Everybody ate immediately, savoring the philosophy of the food, like a romanticized communist cafeteria. The entire dining experience took about fifteen minutes. It was my favorite meal.

We went to another gudhwara close by, smaller and more serene. At the Golden Temple, especially during the day, there are currents of people circling, taking photos, praying, reading signs; however, at this gudhwara, it was quite peaceful. The temple was off to the side of the square pond and smaller, and the walkway around the pond was nearly empty. I understood why walking around that pond could be meditative.

We went to what was called the Hindu Golden Temple in the guidebook after getting lost in the bustling city of Amritsar. It was the exact same in every way except smaller and there were Hindu idols in the pond and inside the temple. I couldn’t help but resent it a little.

We took a taxi to the Indo-Pakistani border to watch a special ceremony at sunset. On either side of the border crowds of people (both sides gender separated) sat on concrete bleachers chanting nationalistic cheers. Soldiers on either side performed lung-capacity contests, leg kicking contests, death-stare contests, and most importantly, marching contests. Both sides’ soldiers had rooster-like ornamentation atop the mens’ hats. India was brown and red, Pakistan, green and black (with capes!). While it seemed confrontational and competitive like a cricket match between the two, it also seemed to be a sign of cooling tensions. They shook hands and lowered their flags together, and even though everybody was patriotic, I could not help but feel a certain playfulness to it. And I was happy to see Pakistan, if only a bit.

That night I stayed at the Golden Temple, another service provided for free. I stayed in the isolated foreigner’s section with beds, cupboards for storage, and a shower, while pilgrims slept on mats in an open-air plaza. “We would get killed” said one American girl staying there, “…if we did not have this. I mean I am sad that we don’t get to bridge the cultural gap, but it’s a necessary evil.” I really didn’t like her. She was in India making a movie about “Eastern spirituality” on her year off from NYU. And when she says Eastern spirituality, she means Tibetan Buddhism—she knew nothing about Sikhism or Hinduism (or Islam!), and really didn’t seem interested in knowing.

That was my biggest problem with many of the Westerners we met: they had an agenda in coming to India, and many of them did not even try to learn anything new, only to fulfill and reinforce their largely false perceptions of India (such as Buddhism, which is virtually non-existent in India), perceptions they would carry back with them to espouse as “what India is like.” If I have learned anything from my time in Pune, it is that that phrase does not exist. If one stays up North, in must-see places (The Purell Syndrome [see Goa entry]), then one can see the India imagined by Western dreamers and reinforced by Western tourists. While I was really happy to see these amazing places, I am also incredibly grateful to be seeing so much more.

On our way back to Pune, we stopped in Delhi for twenty-four hours. Worn out, we were too tired to go to the Red Fort or anywhere else. Instead we had breakfast in bed, then went to see the latest Bollywood comedy: Golmaal 3. We took the brand new Delhi light rail—clean, frenzied, and efficient (and a section reserved for ladies only!). The movie seemed to be about the conflict between two competing groups of friends/siblings (it was in Hindi and a lot of it was guesswork), only to be forced together as a family when somebody’s mother married the uncle of the rival siblings/friends. Lots of slapstick, lots of funny faces adding up to an easy film you could laugh at on mute, or in our case, in an unknown language. I liked the movie and it made me think of my five friends with whom I had traveled on this trip—Sam, Alayna, Aisha, Jurisprudence, and I. We were a varied group who pushed and pulled each other, but were willing to make concessions because we just liked each other too much to fight. I couldn’t have had a better group to travel with.

Overthinking Goa

At the end of the day, I think that both political correctness and cultural sensitivity are worthy aspirations but should never and could never be holistically achieved. I approach this conversation in reference to our trip to Goa.

We took a twelve-hour train from Pune to Goa. Like a giant two-dimensional city, the thoroughly blue train (blue exterior, blue doors, blue floors, blue uniforms of attendants, and blue seats) was a truly Indian experience.

Wait, David. That is so not politically correct. The colonial British built the trains to help extract Indian resources and capital to the ports to be sent to the UK. The trains are a legacy of the British, a symbol and stigma of former oppression and colonization. To call it Indian is not only incorrect, but it is offensive. Also, nothing can be called "truly Indian." Judging by the vast differences in how Indians live their lives, nothing really is "truly Indian" and to say that is quite ignorant.

Hold on, Macalester. Let me respond. I agree, the entire notion of one nation called India is a farce and was completely fabricated in reaction to British rule. So India itself is a legacy of colonial rule, and perhaps that is the only thing that truly binds India as a country. Also, to say that trains are not Indian is to say that the English language and western clothing and all forms of modernization are not either. And to do that idealizes “India” and tries to keep a civilization in a museum. And that’s messed up, Mac. Furthermore, the train had people from all walks of life aboard. From single businessmen to beggar children, from families of five to groups of ten young friends, all Indians seemed to use the train, much like the American subway. It is also one of the largest employers in the world. If Indians using railways employed by Indians is not Indian, then I really don’t know what is.

Sorry about that, it's probably not healthy to over-think things questions with no answers. Like continuing to use a toilet that does not flush, it just makes you realize that it is all a big load of crap.

Back to the story, sleeper class divides the train into berths, basically cabins without any door or lock. Each cabin has two benches facing each other and two beds well atop the two. When bedtime arrives, all one needs to do is fold up the back part of the bench and hang it to a chain into what becomes a bed on top another. Puffin, Alayna, Sam and I shared a berth with an Indian family. We conversed a bit in Marathi and a bit in sign language. I got some veg biryani for dinner from a vendor walking the aisles. It was basically spiced rice with veggies and an a oily red gravy full of chilies and cilantro inside an aluminum rectangle. Selling chips, Indian snacks, water, juice, cookies, candy, and dinner, vendors paced the train like the lemonade guy, the beer guy, and the cotton candy guy do at baseball games. There were loads of them, and most did not seem to be affiliated formally with the train. Rather, they must have received rights to sell. I think India has about a billion entrepreneurs.

First, if you do not know this about me already, I loathe the stereotype of India as a magical land to achieve spiritual enlightenment. Then we met them. The find-yourself-in-India westerners. They were three Israeli hippies. Two of them had dreadlocks and the other had a drum. They had been in India traveling for four months now and were headed to Goa, indefinitely.

Don’t get me wrong; the lifestyle of unrestricted travel is highly appealing. Hell, if I could have it my way, I’d do that. And I was not prepared to judge them so negatively until they threw their food out the window along with their water bottle. One guy had a green laser pointer that he pointed at the security guard, just to mess with him. They spoke well of India but knew no Hindi and didn’t really seem to care to know anything about Indian society. They were nice to us, but in the end, I just didn’t like ‘em. I felt like Barry Goldwater. Was I unfair? Perhaps. They were there to enjoy themselves, and they had made a few Indian friends on the train. That’s gotta show some outreach, even if minimal. Perhaps like the Southerners in Easy Rider, I just didn’t like what they represented.

But then again, is study abroad really any “better”? A group of uber-liberal American students coming to learn about the “real India” for a whopping four months, take a class on one local language, do an academic research project, and live with a real-live Indian family? (AH! Is there a way a limousine liberal can go abroad and not feel guilty about it?)

That night I slept quite nicely on my vinyl blue bed, thank you very much. The train rocked me to sleep, though the absence of both pillow and blanket made uninterrupted sleep a challenge. Nevertheless, we arrived in the morning to Goa and I felt rested.

The first thing we did after we checked into the hotel was try some of this feni business. Feni is the local Goan liquor, made from either coconut or cashew. The coconut reminded me of a harsh rum. Right before drinking the cashew feni (straight), a very sour nutty smell hits your nostrils. It almost makes you want to change your mind about trying it. Weirdly enough, the taste is completely different, quite smooth and woody.

The beach was stunning. The only thing that reminded me that we were in India was the sari-clad woman and little girls walking the beach, most of whom were selling necklaces, rings, food, water, etc. Foreigners and Indian men inhabited the rest of the beach. I must say I got a bit of reverse culture shock seeing so many foreigners in Goa. Usually when I see one in Pune I stare and I feel the urge to yell “Hey Whitie!!!” and ask if they miss hamburgers too. But where we were was about 25% foreigners, and I had to remember not to stare.

My beach routine consists of: First, swim in the ocean. Always numero uno. Dive through the waves, jump over them, ride them into the shore, let them fall on you, whatever floats your boat (no pun intended). Second, sun dry while reading until you get hot/bored. Third, repeat steps one and two. The water was bath-warm and clay-brown, while the sand was coal-hot and brown-paper-bag-tan.

For dinner that night, I had fresh prawns in a spicy Indian red sauce and cashew feni. We met up with the rest of the crowd from ACM at Café Mambo’s, the big nightclub in Goa. Unfortunately, the actual famous nightclub, Tito’s, was under construction when we went; however, the same people own Mambo’s. We danced to hip-hop night in a jubilant state. On the perimeter were Indian men, waiting for their lucky chance to get chosen while Indians and foreigners interspersed the donut-shaped dance floor with a loosened demeanor that was worn over their party clothes. The center of the donut was a column encircled by a big table.

The next morning we were sun burnt and drained and decided to skip the beach in favor of sightseeing. We saw Old Goa, the former capital of the Portuguese colony here. However, it was abandoned in the 17^th century because of malaria outbreak. The capital was moved to Panaji, one town over.

Old Goa had three main cathedrals. All were equally grand and baroque. As if the nightlife, the beaches, and the palm trees had not already made me feel like I was in Brazil, then the epic cathedrals did. Each one had large wooden benches below a massive white ceiling. The back walls (a.k.a. the direction of prayer. Do any of the Catholic readers know the proper word for this?) underneath the domes were three distinct and three equally amazing walls. The first was modest in that it was not made of solid gold, but rather, a beautiful burnt-red/brown rock that made the whole place feel Turkish (Note: I don’t know what I’m talking about when I say Turkish.). The second was the quietist but I think had the most beautiful and ornate golden front wall. The third was crowded, but mostly because it had the corpse of old St. Xavier. I did not notice this but apparently you could still see his fingers through the glass, even after hundreds of years inside his massive granite tomb.

We left Old Goa for Panaji, where we took a sunset boat tour of the bay. The boat ride included a dance show that families sat eagerly in the audience to watch. Puffin, Alayna, Sam, Aeesha and I were happy just watching the bay right before both the sun set and a storm hit. Luckily the storm did not hit too hard while we were on the boat. That night I didn’t make it to Mambo’s. Instead I ran into a British guy and a Swede who the other ACM folks met from their hotel. They didn’t go into Mambo’s for the gender discriminated prices (500 Rs./male, 0 Rs./female), and I, separated from the group, followed them to a bar. I met their friends, a frizzy-haired Brit with glasses and an encouraging laugh, a Russian woman living in Dubai with her Indian husband, who was also there. There were others, but they came and went. The evening wore on.

I awoke the next morning worn out.

In the end, I liked Goa because it was pure fun. It is not only an international vacation spot but a domestic one as well. Indians from all over flock to Goa for the same reasons we did, including the risqué stuff. And with its warm Arabian waters striking its beautiful beaches accompanying the century-old Portuguese cathedrals, Goa is the place for westerners to escape the stereotypical Indian travel plans (discover Buddhism in the Himalayas, save the children missionary work, etc.). In fact, Goa seems to overthrow a million and a half different stereotypes about India solely because it is so unique.

Ironically enough, it is also the place where Indian stereotypes of westerners (debauchery, promiscuousness, chauvinism, and what I call the Purell syndrome, which sanitizes local culture to foreign tastes (Examples in India: toilet paper, bottled water, Italian food, etc.).) are wholeheartedly fulfilled. I know I probably fulfilled most of those stereotypes in Goa, and I know I have done so before Goa as well. But at the end of the day, after all is said and done, I needed the vacation and Goa was really great for providing that. A great vacation spot is what has made Goa so popular (and the most developed state in India). I don’t think anybody can tell me that that is a bad thing.

So much of this discussion of politically correct and cultural sensitivity arrived this week from an autobiography we read in my literature class. A very low-caste Marathi man wrote it, and many of us had problems with the writing style (for example, little character development of the protagonist, grotesque stories with no relief, and sometimes repetitive and bland sentence structure). Was it fair when evaluating the book to criticize it? This author overcame so much to be able to write it, and writing it enough was an accomplishment. And it was not all bad, some parts were gripping and provocative. Does criticizing this book aim in the direction of trying to make it more palatable to outsiders, a.k.a. rubbing Purell all over it? On the other hand, could not criticizing its literary merit (it is, after all, a work of literature) just because of the author’s background be seen as condescending? Goa, a place for westerners to basically be westerners, reveals the opposite. Could going to Goa perpetuate the Purell syndrome? On the other hand, wouldn’t it be putting India into a rather patronizing museum display-case to say that Goa is “western” (as Indians vacation there as well)?

Please don’t answer these questions, I have not and will not. Like I said in the beginning, political correctness and cultural sensitivity are grand aspirations that can never be achieved. In the end, both the past and the present reveal cleavages between East and West, between rich and poor, between sobering volunteer work and drunken hedonism. Approaching these differences is never pretty, nor is anybody who thinks too much (like I do) ever completely happy with the process. Going to Goa and reading low-caste literature oppositely reveal a different side of India to me. Study abroad is about opening up a conversation, a sort of getting-to-know-you between peoples. In the end, perhaps it is not what is right or wrong about the interaction but the fact that the interaction is happening. Beyond social context, economic disparity, or political/historical realities, listening to other people and exchanging ideas defines righteous behavior and makes me feel good about being here. And that’s the double truth, Ruth.

God-appaloosa Part 3: Water for Elephants

I didn’t anticipate many things before coming to India: the traffic, the frequent monsoon rains, the 2010 Commonwealth Games. But more dance-offs with strange men, again? Really?

The Ganpati (Ganesha) festival started on the same day as Eid-al Fitr, and it ended last Wednesday. It is a ten day festival for Lord Ganesha, whose birthday is then. He is the elephant-headed Hindu god of good fortune and prosperity (though his mother is the goddess of wealth, Laxmi. She has all human features). After my interview, I biked back to my family’s flat, thinking I was late. Luckily, the Indian minute is not a New York minute. The family consisted of Aai, Baba, their son, their daughter-in-law, and their grandson, Adu. The cricket game was on, but it was turned off so the traditional Ganpati music, played on a CD, could be heard. Aai and Baba had taken their shiny metal Ganesha idol out of the case in my room and began the ceremony.

The ceremony was a complete sensory experience. Ganpati was adorned with a cotton necklace, several flower necklaces, bindi of a special powder, seeds, turmeric, and more flowers. While the music played and the family gathered around the idol clapping softly with the music, Adu lit incence. We all received bindi between our eyes. After adorning the idol, Aai lit a small, waxed wick on the tip of a metal dish. Every member of the family circled the large flame towards the idol clockwise, kind of as if every family member lit a Hanukah candle. Everyone said their prayers which included raising their hands together to their bowed nose and their eyes closed. One or two slow spins accompanied and we each waved our hands over the candle. Hearing the happy music, smelling the incense, feeling the bindi and the candle’s heat, seeing the beautiful idol, and finally, eating the special Ganpati treat, Moduk (a sweet dumpling treat that Ganesh apparently loves), revealed the wholeness of the ritual. Every part of me sensed the celebration.

But once the song was finished, my brother turned the cricket match back on.

The modern Hindu, right Oma?

They family came over for dinner that night when we repeated, and again the next day.

Part of the Ganpati ceremony is to submerge your individual idol on either the 3^rd, 5^th, or 7^th day of the festival (many go any day during the festival, depends upon individual tradition). The immersion is to give Ganpati a proper farewell and for good luck in the coming year. I did not get to go to my family’s submersion, as their idol is metal. My Aai went to some with her friends.

There are celebrations every night in and around the city that get progressively crazier each night. Pune is supposed to have the biggest and best Ganpati celebrations. People come here from Mumbai, not the other way around, and others come from all over India. Preston, friend Sam, friend Kacie, and I went to downtown Pune the last and craziest night.

The three main East-West streets in Pune were closed to vehicles, and it was alive with a vibrant and humongous crowd.

We walked to the river on a broad street comfortably filled with families, groups of men, street artists chalking elaborate Ganesha’s on the street, and floats. The average float had about twenty people dancing in front of it to what I call religious techno. Red powder, gulal, was flung into the air, seeping into everybody’s sweaty hair, skin, and clothing. Atop the float were usually three or four kids, sometimes blowing bubbles, sometimes dancing, and sometimes just sitting around, and then the idol itself. The Ganpati’s were made of plastic porcelain, painted elaborately. They were surrounded by a hodgepodge of colorful decorations, with streamers and painted scenes and flowers and so much more (can you say strobe light?). Ganpati usually looked jolly, though sometimes a bit elusive and a few even looking menacing.

We made it to the river and saw rows of lights and people surrounding the river. The bridge was crowded. People immersed their idol into the river by one chosen representative dunking it once, allowing the bubbles from the bottom to come out, finally watching it sink like a divine bath toy. In all, the newspaper reported 40,000 idols were immersed into the river in Pune. Also, six died in Mumbai trying to immerse their idol into the intemperate ocean! Now I understand why people say religion is dangerous.

(Was that in poor taste or just a regular bad joke?)

We crossed the unsteady bridge I remembered crossing my first day in India, this time at night and with many people watching others swim with a sinking idol of a deity.

On the other side, the pace picked up. We ran into a family that invited us four whities to dance with them. They banged drums, one snare, one bass, and we all danced to it. This was the last time that we danced with a female, and the three were under 15. The rest were men whom we danced with us, presumably fathers and uncles, while gulal rained on our emancipated, celebratory demeanor. We danced unapologetically, busting out moves such as “the Point-and-Shake,” “The Conga/Eyebrow-Rise ‘n’ Smile,” and the Man-Shimmy, or the Mimmy.

After twenty or so minutes of continuous dancing, they had to move and so did we. We went to the thick of it, Laxmi Road.

The rest of the night became blurrier, not from traditional forms of intoxication, but from the rigorous combination of all-out-balls-to-the-wall dancing your face off surrounded by a bunch of random men and trekking through the insanity—what I imagine Mardi Gras or Carnival or a peaceful riot to be like—sometimes being forcibly moved by the saturated crowd. Eventually we had to stop dancing because friend Kacie was getting her butt pinched too many times, and then we understood why were only dancing with men at the floats. I had many variations of “What country?” screamed into my earlobe. The jovial men were all excited to see us and to dance with us, though they challenged us with many show-me-what-you-got and bring-it-white-boy looks. I thought of my friend Chet from the nightclub.

The main corner, where the Ganesh temple actually is year-round on Laxmi, was inaccessible two ways, so we had to walk around it to get in front of it.

Covered in blinking white Christmas lights, the interior was gold and silver plated with a happy Ganesh sitting in front. Nobody was really inside, that would have been 50,000 too many outside voices inside that one-room temple.

We left friend Sam and friend Kacie to try to find Preston’s host-sister, Preeti. It took us an hour and a half of text messaging her, her telling us to go to various places in the area that we didn’t know. I asked dozens of people, one being a drunken cop who kissed my hand in farewell, and most gave contradictory directions.

(God-appaloosa Part Two: Twenty Eight Days Later and) Bhimashankar

The truth is, I did not get to celebrate Eid al-Fitr much, the celebration of the first day after Ramadan. God-appaloosa Part Two: Twenty Eight Days Later was not very exciting.
Last Saturday I went to a professor's apartment for my Independent Study Project, which is on Muslims in India. He is a self-proclaimed secular Muslim. He works in a non-profit focusing on literacy and education for Muslims. Professor Tamboli lives in an apartment similar to the one I live in, and when I got there, they were eating biscuits with tea. His wife was a lawyer but now works at home. He served me a hot, milky, and sweet soup with small rice noodles and nuts. We talked about Islam in India and the Muslim community. He was a very informative and great person to talk to, but because of his secular nature, offered only a scholarly perspective on Muslims in India. His wife offered me food, and I should have said no. Unfortunately, I did not want to offend and said yes. I ended up being the only person eating and I could only eat about half because I knew that I would eat with my family for Ganpati, the ten-day festival for Ganesh that began on that same day. So I awkwardly ate some lamb and rice while some of his friends showed up to visit. I stayed for about ten more minutes and then realized it was my time to go.

But that was last weekend. This weekend began on Friday (as most do) when the literature students (about 13 of us) went to a book release for our professor, R. Raj Rao. His publisher is Penguin, and the book is called "Hostel Room 131." I have not read it, but it is about a romance story between two male students at Engineering College. Along with Raj was a prince from Gujarat and a friend of his. The prince became famous when he came out of the closet several years ago. He was on Oprah in 2007 and now works as a gay rights activist. Afterwards, we ran into him at dinner with a friend of his.

Saturday morning began with Yom Kippur services. I met my friend Alayna there and the first thing I noticed when I got there was that everybody was wearing white. I, of course, was wearing my red and white striped button-down, not my all-white. Alayna was wearing a blue shirt. Oops. There were very nice and colorful rugs on the marble floor, apparently for a sitting service later in the afternoon, but they honestly should stay.
They really tied the room together.

We went straight to the bus station and sat for two hours and questioned every person we could where the bus to Bhimashankar was. Finally, our mostly-yellow bus, adorned with many other colors as most buses here are, arrived. Three hours passed slowly as we drove through the lush, verdant Maharastran countryside. Around dusk we finally arrived at Bhimashankar. But we could not tell what time of day it was because of the fog. For some reason, the town seemed eerie. A one-road town with shops and restaurants, Bhimashankar is a local religious and eco-tourist site. It has a large temple for Shiva, which we visited that night. Walking down the some two-hundred dark foggy stairs, most of it not lit up, we passed by more shops. The temple is mostly black on the outside, with rounded stair-like stone pedals escalating into a pinnacle. The layout was similar to the temple I went to in Ellora, but because it was not a festival, it was not very crowded. We went inside and looked at others saying prayers to the statue of the many-headed Shiva without removing their shirts or wetting their hands with milk. We received kumku (bindi in Hindi, "marks between the eyes" in English) and walked a bit more, and then left. Temples seems more familiar now and I am beginning to understand why some call Hinduism a way of life. They are everywhere and everywhere they are majestic in their own way. They cannot be equated to churches or synagogues because anywhere there is an idol can be a temple. In a backyard, in a bedroom, right next to the supermarket, in the biggest intersection in Pune, in the middle of a forest, in a bookstore, temples are omnipresent; depending on who the god is and who owns the temple and how big the temple is, different people worship in it.

I broke the fast that night with whatever we could read on the Marathi menu, which as usual was delicious. We awoke the next morning in our rented out room (I wouldn't call where we stayed a hostel but rather, a room that some guy rents out to tourists) to people talking over the TV early in the morning, and it sounded like they were in our room. People fought and we fought the urge to wake up until nine. We got some deep fried lentils and potatoes for breakfast (breakfast total: under 50 cents), and then went off to find a guide, which one of the ACM program coordinators said was necessary. We found the guy in the blue shirt who spoke English and we asked him about a guide. His friend, Vilas became our guide and friend.

Vilas was a tall skinny man who walked fast and climbed with agility. While trekking, he wore a black rain jacket the whole time and never drank water, except once. We first went to a waterfall. On the way there, right outside the town, the garbage took over the walking path. Gradually, as we got further into the woods, the garbage waned and the forest got thicker. The waterfall was nice and there was a Hindu statue and a carving in the rock of the harmony of man and woman right next to the falls. Another temple.

Then we trekked "height" as Vilas put it. You must understand, Vilas' English was about as strong as our Marathi. Sentences throughout the day were usually one verb in English and then the rest in Marathi, which I usually just repeated back to him and nodded, pretending to understand. As we got higher, a stream that probably became the waterfall passed us by. Vilas called it "original" and "fresh" and made the gesture for drinking. I drank some after he did and it was crisp and clean and certainly better than the plastic flavor of bottled water. We trekked further up and saw some Shekroo climbing in the trees. They had yellow-ish bodies and black faces and long tails and generally were more skittish than the monkeys at Daulatabad. But they had a great place to call home. The lush rolling hills of the valley in the Western Ghats smelled wet and sweet but sometimes like cow poop. The height was apparently 5,000 feet up, and when we got to the top, it was all fog. As if floating right outside an airplane window, the highest point in Bhimashankar was surreal. The cliff followed a standard plot of a novel and we were at the climax. There was not much falling action and we could faintly see the epilogue but I don't know how high up we were. What I do know is that I could make out the house but certainly not a person or an individual tree. After sitting on the highest point on the ridge for twenty quiet minutes, unable to see any view, we began our descent.

Eventually we figured out that Vilas invited us to his house for lunch, and we graciously accepted. After all, we had nothing else to do. His village was half an hour away by bus. On the way, I borrowed Jasper's iPod and we listened to some American music. First was the Band, which Vilas did not like. Next was the Beach Boys, which as Alayna put it: "How can you not like the Beach Boys?" Then a bit of the Boss, but I switched to Michael Jackson when he said his name. "He dead now," said Vilas.
"Ho ho, very sad." I don't think he knew what sad meant as we listened to Billie Jean.

He asked if we were "Veg/non-Veg?" and I said two of us were non-Veg, Jasper being Veg. At the bus stop/convenience store/hang out, Vilas got a live chicken from the owner and we paid for it (120 rupees, or like $2.50). I was really happy he let us pay for it, the least we could do. He carried the chicken by its bound feet upside-down a kilometer to his coral green house. We were not in a tourist town-- this was Grade-A, cream of the crop, bona fide rural India. I was just smiling and laughing the whole time.
His house did not have electricity or running water and the only thing that seemed to run on batteries was the sole clock in the living room/bedroom. One of the other rooms was the kitchen and the other was what seemed to be a storage/multi-purpose room. It was the middle room and had no outside doors to it so it was dark. He beheaded the chicken in a metal bucket, plucked the feathers, and cut it up in front of us while his one-year-old naked son watched us with big eyes and a straight face. He could walk but could not yet speak. His wife began preparations for dinner. Soon his two other boys came back from playing. One was ten and the other six. When finished with the chicken, Vilas showed us the water hole next to his house and his temple fifty feet from his house. The water hole came from a natural spring he showed us (no need for a well). They got water from that and cleaned clothes in the pond. That was the water we drank, straight from the horses' mouth. The temple was rainbow-colored straight out of Willy Wonka's factory and had a simply carved steeple. His idol was a red stone woman, but the inside was locked so we did not go in. Vilas and the three of us climbed the tree next to it and sat for a while, taking in everything. Soon it was just Jasper, Alayna, and I sitting in the tree wondering how we had gotten so lucky to be here.

Soon our language barrier grew larger because our brains were not functioning at full capacity. The boys played with my America deck of cards (thank you Aunt Jenny!) and they wrote numbers in both English and Marathi with our pens on my pocket-sheets of paper. Conversation revolved around the boys who showed us their English books. We talked a bit about government and how he and his wife voted last year, a bit about family members' names, languages the children spoke, and of course, the occasional misunderstanding. The boys listened to the iPod and took pictures on Jasper's camera. The baby boy played with the camera, mostly just pressing buttons and enjoying the noises it made.

After two hours or so lunch was ready. We ate the chicken in a really spicy red broth with chapatis and onions. The very fresh chicken was quite bony and we had to pick at it to get the meat. Due to the lack of meat, we put the raw onions in the broth and grabbed at them with our piece of chapati to get the flavor. I was quite hungry and, from a combination of many factors, ate a bit quickly. He told me I could slow down, and I felt a bit embarrassed. Soon bhat was served after the chapatis were finished to soak up the broth. It was an amazing meal and for dessert we had a handful of sugar.

After we finished we went to the bus and we said goodbye to the family. We gave the little boys our pens and I gave them my notebook (after taking out the notes I had written). I think they still have about half of my deck of cards.

We waited at the bus stop/convenience store/hang out for a while, surrounded by men staring at us while we sat in plastic chairs and waited. We were tired and ready to go back. We gave Vilas the money for being our guide that day (at this point I had almost forgotten), and after missing one bus, we caught the next.

We stood for the first hour on the bus back because there were no open seats. When I did get to sit, I fell asleep, only to wake up in the outskirts of Pune.

God-appaloosa Part 1: Indians of the Lost Ark

Stepping into a synagogue on the morning of Rosh Hashanah, as I had done for the past twenty years of my life (except last year, sorry God!), I felt unsettlingly foreign. I was one of three whities, the services were all in Hebrew, and what’s more, they made me wear a tallis? This is no Classical Reform, and I don’t see a Brazilian man making off-color jokes to the congregation.

Three days later it felt very natural when my family turned off the TV to commence the ceremonies of Ganpati, only to turn it back on the instant they finished. Now this was more familiar.

Ever since coming here I have felt that India is not different but parallel, and that the things different would be surprisingly similar and the things similar would be surprisingly different. I am happy to have found this through religion and these past weeks were God-appaloosa.

Three holidays in two weeks, three religions in one religious clusterf#@% of a country, and one Religious Studies minor determined to experience them all.

Round one: Rosh Hashanah. This one should be a piece of Hamentashen. I went to the Red Temple, one of two synagogues in Pune and the largest in Asia outside Israel, the day before to find out when services were. The outside of the temple looks simple and imposing like an Anglican Church (steeple and all) and it is built entirely from brick-red brick. I waited for the go-ahead from the security guard who questioned me (Ever since 26/11, when Indian Jews in Mumbai were targeted by the terrorists, security is pretty high at the Red Temple and no goys are allowed in during the High Holidays). Should I bust out my last name to prove my Jew credentials (J-cred)? What about the Sh’mah or the Kiddush or perhaps something more covenant related?

Finally, the caretaker of the synagogue, who I later found out was named David ben Schlomo, motioned me in.

What’s that, David ben Schlomo, you only need to look at me to know I’m a Jew? That obvious, eh?

The first thing that I noticed about David was his white yarmulke and his dark skin. Call me what you want but I was surprised. I do not encounter Sephardim often, much less a man ethnically Indian wearing a similar little beanie to the one that I got from Sam Driks’ Bar Mitzvah seven years ago. The second thing I noticed about David ben Schlomo was the name David ben Schlomo. Enough said.

He gave me a little card with the times for all the services for the High Holidays and I knew I was stepping into some orthodox grounds and that I may be preparing myself for embarrassment. Can’t I be like the other secular Jews who go to India and take Jew-sabbatical (Please note the irony in that contraction. You see, sabbatical comes from the Hebrew word for…oh nevermind)?

The next evening I arrive a little late to services (family: think John and Jenny, not Steve and Louise) and I was one of the first. I sat down on a bench facing the center of the synagogue, not the Torah. The synagogue was simply decorated with white paint and floral decorations. The Ten Commandments were carved in English and Hebrew and in the same white marble that covered the floors, and there were several other framed signs in Hebrew. There were white columns holding up the balcony and had blue floral caps, with each column having a distinct blue floral adornment. In the center of the sanctuary was a raised island on which the rabbi (called something else here that I cannot remember) led services.

In the end about forty people showed up for the hour-long service. The Pune Jewish community is about one-fifty and shrinking. Most have left for Israel, and I will talk about that later. Everybody looked Indian to me and some of the women, who were all on the right side (guess where the men were), wore little fabric squares clipped to their hair to accompany their sari. The younger generation of girls wore jeans and blouses and one girl looked like she came straight from school, jeans and sneakers and all. Some of the men wore button downs and nice slacks (including me. [And you’re welcome, Dad.]), while some wore jeans and two my age wore t-shirts. But they all wore yarmulkes (including me).

“Shall we get started?” was the last thing I understood coming from the rabbis mouth. His all-Hebrew service was not only the orthodox version (thus the prayers unabridged) but sang in a totally different tune and away from the thinly spread congregation, toward the arc on what I presumed to be the East side of the temple. His echo and my faint Bar Mitzvah memories and the foreign pace of the service made me try very hard to follow and then give up and only pretend to do so. I had begun a conversation with a guy my exact age I found out and continued it intermittently throughout the service. And I didn’t feel weird because it seemed like about half of the people were in conversation as well. I guess half the people were paying attention just like at services back home, except here they didn’t pretend to be paying attention like we do.

The guy is named Ari Hyam (total J-cred) and after talking for a while and consulting his mother on the other side of the sanctuary after services, invited me to dinner. After a short rickshaw ride where Ari comforted me when saying that rickshaw drivers are all a-holes (something I had been wondering if Indians felt the same way), we arrived at his cozy apartment. He is studying engineering at the University of Pune. His dad, who was not at services, was watching TV when I arrived. He is Robin Hyam and he made Aliyah in 1975 but returned to India on a visit and never left. At the dinner we discussed many issues of common thread between Jews, and I enjoyed discovering the comparisons and contrasts they had to my American Jewish experience.

What I found most interesting was their connection to Israel and their relationship with the goyim in India. For them, India was a nice place to stay and Robin expressed thankfulness that Indians have let them worship freely all these years, yet his heart was in Israel. For such a small community, and for a family that was really attached to their Jewish identity, it made sense that they had such a fondness and closeness with Israel. He said that the Indian Jewish population was much larger before Israel, and that in a series of three major spurts Jews have made Aliyah. First right after creation, second in the seventies, and third around now-ish. The Hyams’ son was in Israel studying Hebrew and Robin served in the IDF. He is now head of a physical security company. They did not seem to mourn what was regarded to them as the inevitable end to the Indian Jewish community, but rather express excitement for Israel. And of course, we had the necessary Israeli politics talk. Indian Jews don’t eat beef (to respect Hindus), do henna on weddings, and intermarriage is not only common but necessary; however, they don’t celebrate Hindu holidays or traditions and can only marry a gentile if he or she converts.

The meal was kosher and goat and I think I ate its liver.

The next morning I thought I was Steve and Louise late (being an hour late [sorry if you are reading this Mr. and Mrs. Gruenembaum, not trying to draw attention to you.]) but I was an hour earlier this time than the majority of the congregants. About twice the attendance of the night before, the service was the similar but they blew eight rounds of the shofar, and there was no contest for longevity, a.k.a. my favorite part of the service.

I spoke with the two other white folks during the snack break after services and the girl grew up in St. Louis Park, Minnesota. Her uncle is from Overland Park (Jewish Geography at its finest). She seemed more familiar with the service and knew what was going on with the whole afternoon water prayer thing which I did not.

I think in the end the Jewish Diaspora experience is pretty varied and we all do things much more differently than we think. The Jewish experience is by no means concrete and clear. But in the end, even the Hyams had hooked noses and an inescapable feeling of being different from their neighbors. Like some I know, they take pride in it. A businessman and family man I met at morning services, who only goes to synagogue five or so times a year however, seemed to reject his religion but not his identity. And in the end, that is all we are, an identity, and it does not matter who you….

Blah blah blah ok, end of Round one. More to come.

The Non-Indian

With wet milk on my hands, I walked out of the temple buttoning my shirt and with an I-Come-In-Peace disposition, I rang the bell enough to observe the ritual but not loud enough to make more than a click. I am in another God’s home.

Thursday morning, we left for the Ajanta and Ellora Caves, a four-day trip to wrap up orientation. Six hours on a bus with no known shock absorbers. We placed our backpacks in the trunk and I placed myself near the back.

I didn’t eat breakfast because I thought they were going to provide it. Not breakfast but a smorgasbord of snacks, and when I say smorgasbord I mean boxes of fruit, countless bags of banana chips and paprika Funyan-like chips, regular potato chips and potato chips with ridges, chocolate cupcakes, fruit cupcakes, chocolate cookies of three varieties, and then lunch. Food, sleep, food, sleep.

We arrived at a fort that had to either be built by genius defenders or paranoid warlords, or a bit of both. Built by Jains and then conquered by Mughals in the twelfth century, psychological defense was the strategy to protecting their hill fort, and though most of it was made more accessible for tourists, our tour guide in a thick accent made the tricks and traps known. It had three huge walls, twenty-two feet at the largest base, and the entrances did not line up. Most attackers did not get past the walls because it had many dead ends. By that time the defenders could fend them off. If they did not, however, two moats, bat-infested tunnels winding through the rock like a labyrinth, a twelve-foot long brass cannon that only faces away from the fort, and a tripping stone might. It was a feat not only in architecture but in superb intellect as well.

Men so hungry for a sale tried to sell us knick-knacks from the bus window and did not cease until we got back on the bus again. Even after I told one man I already bought a booklet, he insisted that I buy his because it was better.

There were monkeys at the cave that had white hair and black manes and tails a yard long. They climbed trees and cars and their butts looked like hearts and I wanted one.

Before we left I saw a man sitting on a column while a monkey sat on the one next to his. The monkey put his elbows on his arms and sighed, looking aimlessly and probably thinking about either food or danger or nothing at all. Aren’t we all. Both primates seemed quite complacent and I realized that the non-homo sapiens primates are not photo opportunities as we foreigners (I emphasize the me in we, see photos to come!!!!) used them but instead are just neighbors trying to live.

Let’s just say the locals took more photos of us than of the ones with the tails.

The next morning Jason, Alayna, and I woke up decidedly tired, to say the least.

We went to Ajanta cave on Friday, and as I told my mother, they blew Petra out of the water. Monolithic caves carved out of a rock face a quarter mile long built as far back as sixteen hundred years ago encircle a creek and a lush hill. A waterfall carved the rock in layers so that before the big drop, large pools flow into one another like continuous flattened hourglasses. Twenty-six or so caves in all, they ranged in height (from two high-ceiling stories to ten feet) but most went about fifty yards deep and twenty yards wide. Buddhist temples with the man himself carved next to detailed murals and ornate columns depicting religious stories, beautiful patterns, and various gods filled these “caves” with a feeling of wonder, mostly why I had never heard of these before. Ajanta is particularly famous for its “cave paintings” whose figures resemble the works of Da Vinci rather than the works of Neanderthal. One painted woman wore simple white pearls but if you flashed a light from below them the all-natural paint glittered. We were asked to take off our shoes before entering each cave and I understand why.

The vendors were especially persistent there, and one man, whom I met as Aric (transliterated) at the bus stop eventually became my number one sales stalker. He told me not to buy from the vendors there because it was overpriced and I thought he was just being nice. Little did I know he had a shop at the market where our bus was located. He found me at the market drinking chuha and persuaded me to come to his shop. He had beautifully crafted stone carvings but his products were not unique. He gave me complimentary chuha as his salesman began to show me things. Eventually I had to tell him I had only one hundred fifty rupees and they still tried to sell me more expensive things. I bought something for a quarter of what he originally offered and I had to leave. But before I did, my man Aric noticed my American dollars in my wallet and continued to follow me with marked down prices for other goods. He persisted and persisted and persisted and again, persisted. A friend Katie finally rescued me with her ability to walk fast and be rude. I’m glad she did because I couldn’t to the man who was my friend before he was my desperate salesman.

The final day we did not need to bus to since the Ellora caves were right next to our hotel. The most famous and the largest was Cave No. 16, which upon first impression reminded me of…absolutely nothing I have ever seen. It’s a completely amazing and unique structure that only can be called a cave because it is all one piece of rock. Carved from the top down (After the queen of the time said she would starve herself until the dome was built, the clever sculptor started from the top.), the entire structure is two stories and more like a building. Stone elephant heads encircle the building and entire epics are carved onto the temple like wallpaper. Every inch has a detail and every detail has a purpose, even if that purpose is self-fulfilling. It took two hundred years to build and I’m surprised that the architectural plans did not disappear in that time. It was awe-some.

Upon all twenty-seven of us walking into the structure, the crowd seemed to go silent like in Cool Runnings when the Jamaicans first arrived in Calgary. There were three hundred sixty degrees of people staring at the massive group of white people, one of the white people was bearded and talking with an Indian girl. He only drew more attention and his guide told him I cannot make conversations with people otherwise I create too much attention. I blushed and felt like a monkey as the girl asked for a photo with me.

We got the afternoon to ourselves and I took a nap only to be woken up by hotel staff doing repairs to my wall while I was in the room asleep. Thanks for the hard work, sirs.

I walked toward No. 16 and I was bothered and tired. Restaurant owners and gift vendors offer themselves for my revenue. Three separate groups of curious Indians stop me and ask to take a picture with me and I’m beginning to realize I could never be famous. Finally, while walking above sixteen toward the summit a group of Indian men hail me down and tell me to stop. One spokesman comes to me:

“Where are you going?”

“I don’t know. Up there.”

“You can’t, it’s dangerous.”

I had already had one encounter with overstepping my limits (I walked behind the waterfall the day before when the sign [that I didn’t see!] said not to) and was not prepared to have it again. A separate group of men, some fifty feet in front of us, began to descend the hill.

“Ok, you can go now.”

“What?”

“Wait, first, one picture. Please.”

“…Sure.” The men below seemed to find this whole situation of telling the foreigner what to do hilarious as they took pictures of their spokesman and I. I kept walking and could not tell what their intentions were in stopping me.

The summit was good and I wrote something down.

When I descended, for some reason, I was invisible as if I were back in the States. No stares, no photo requests, no persistent vendors, no restaurant owners, nothing of the sort.

When I got back, we prepared to go to a local temple before dinner. Gene, a program coordinator, told us we would split up in the madness and to just be back before dinner.

Now that’s what I’m talking about.

The temple is a regional religious attraction, a temple for Lord Shiva. That day was his birthday so it was crowded. We heard a microphoned voice from afar and walked toward it. It was coming from a teacher teaching Hindu songs to a gazebo filled with about four hundred boys. We took off our shoes and were allowed to walk around the red perimeter of the one-story building. Meanwhile the kids were expected to sing along with the teacher, reading their booklets as supervisors stood over them and kept them in line. However, a large group of whities encircling the building, staring at the boys distracted them from their studies. I can’t blame them but the songs were somewhere between Ayn Kelohaynu and the Muslim call to prayer. The singer had an electric keyboard to add the magical schmaltz while a little boy held a large wooden instrument similar to a less decorative cello and I forget its name. Behind the boys was a statue to Nandi, the bull god. Also, two walk-in shrines to several gods. They were adorned with idols, carnation-like flowers, and incense.

Then I walked down the late evening streets of the town and it smelled like a food market and it looked like an Indian state fair (sans roller coasters) and it sounded like a different continent. For one of the first times I felt timeless in India and in an age so transient for this emerging nation, those times seem waning. Well, at least in Pune.

I took off my shoes as I prepared to enter what I thought everybody in my group was entering, the temple of Shiva. I had taken my time so I didn’t see anybody else from ACM in the massive line but I wasn’t worried about it, or anything for that matter. A woman at the shoe drop-off shack splashed water on the ground when I tried to put mine on a shelf, so I added mine to the pile on the floor. I stood silently between metal railings and walked slowly forward so as to not get yelled at by the others behind me. About halfway through waiting, the family behind me noticed me swipe away a spider web and said something in Marathi. My listening comprehension was and still is poor. We started up a conversation and pretty soon I exhausted all of the Marathi I could think of. They received me warmly and they giggled with happiness when I called the dog meandering the yard kutra. I learned that the daughter was learning English and I asked her what her name was and she responded. I did not want to push her English, for she looked twelve and probably did not know much. We wanted to continue talking since both parties seemed happy with the interaction but eventually the language barrier hit and we could not talk. Instead we smiled, I partially turned forward again, and the father called the kutra dog. I said khoop chhan and we all laughed. After twenty minutes we reached the temple entrance.

The temple was red and tall, but only had one story open with low ceilings. Upon entering, I noticed men taking off their shirts and I gestured to another man if I should. Eventually I noticed the sign that asked all men to do so. I obliged and revealed my pasty stomach. I followed the thick crowd down three steps into a room with black walls and a black ceiling. The ground was black and covered in chanting topless men praying towards and groping over a railing a statue in the middle. This statue, however, was not complex. I had seen it in Ellora before. It was a two-foot tall cylinder with a circle around it. That was all, and a man in the corner closest was pouring milk onto it from a small hole in a plastic bag. Men touched the statue and kissed it and left multi-colored flowers and aromatic leaves upon it. The cylinder is a phallus and the circle it penetrates represents a vagina. This symbolizes the harmony of life and without the two the next generation cannot exist. I too rubbed the phallus and put my head to the ground.

The room filled with bona fide religion and pure devotion. It was real because I saw Hindus pulling air for a touch of the statue and because I heard the chants and prayers of a people with a confluent spirit. It was real because I smelled the sweat and incense and because I felt the milk wet stone on my hands and the warm bedrock under my feet.

I was a lot of things.

First, it was the first religious experience I had ever had outside a synagogue (I had been to a few Christian services before but those were witnessing religion, not feeling it). Not just spiritual, but religious. It was also my first encounter with an unfamiliar divine, and secondly I felt, in the words of the Ten Commandments (not mine), idolatrous. As palpably surreal as I felt in that black basement of the tall cone temple, I could not help but thirdly feel uncomfortable being in a place so holy to all and only incredibly fascinating to me. I felt like an anthropologist, in an isolating way, and again I rubbed the milky stone phallus timidly while others kissed it with passion and prayed with their soul.

I left fairly soon so that others waiting in that long line could get a chance.

I never realized to whom I had been talking all this time until I heard other people talking to somebody else and I think I have always believed in God, even if I still agree with Vonnegut when he said God is a pack of foma.

I stepped out of the basement and meandered a bit more in the small temple before I put my shirt on again. Another statue of Nandi, another shrine behind a glass window and a wooden screen. Walking out I find American friends and then lose them again in the hustle to find my shoes. I walk with a man from Hyderabad around my age who approached me. He told me it was Shivas birthday and that this temple was famous. I think he wanted to know why I was there but did not ask.

I later found out that we Americans weren’t supposed to go into the temple and I understand why.

In the end, today is Monday and Aai tapped my cheek and called me “my son” after I told her I was excited for what she was making for breakfast tomorrow. She knew it was my favorite.