photo by Munir Virani of The Peregrine Fund
The two raptor biologists I’d been trailing behind had waited out the weekend to enter Ranthambhore National Park in order to avoid the crowds. They had made a minor miscalculation. What the scientists didn’t realize was that that particular Monday was Bhadrapad Sudi Chaturthi, the fourth day of the bright half of the month of Bhadra according to the Hindu calendar. Chat for short. It was the day the pilgrims came.
My uncle Anna has lived through a thousand moons! To celebrate, Anna—literally big brother in Tamil—and his wife Manni will reenact their marriage from 1951. But today is not about him. Today is about the women. It is mangili pondu, the Brahmin ceremony to remember, honor and seek the blessings of the women who have come before, in anticipation of my aunt and uncle’s remarriage. Three of my father’s four sisters have gathered at their house, and all of his three brother’s wives. A couple cousins. A close friend. The few men in attendance sit outside, reading the newspaper and sipping coffee, ignored.
Inside, the sisters are swathed in nine-yard saris, gold and colored silk wrapped a dozen times around their bodies, which move more slowly than they used to. They set up an altar with two banana leaves, a mirror, fresh flowers and a gold necklace. An oil lamp burns in the corner. They draw designs in rice flour to mark place settings on the floor. They bend down and wipe turmeric paste on their feet as I watch, unsure of when I can participate and when I can’t. This motion is for the married; that one for the eldest; a hundred unspoken rules I don’t know. With each return to India, the years creeping up on me at the same relentless rate as it for my aging aunts, my ignorance of what to do during the Hindu ceremonies seems more glaring. I once could play at the Hindu rituals as a child, and even a young woman, in a way I never could at my friend’s Catholic churches, at their Jewish synagogues. In the temple, it all seemed exotic and removed. But now I am a grown woman and the same motions feel fraudulent in any culture, in all the religions I don’t believe in.
Read the rest at Killing the Buddha
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On January 24th, a group of self-proclaimed morality police stormed Amnesia, a swank and dimly lit bar in the city of Mangalore, in the southern Indian state of Karnataka. As television cameras rolled for the staged event (apparently the media had been informed), the jean-clad vigilantes of the Sri Ram Sene physically attacked the jean-clad women and men who were sipping drinks, groping and pulling the hair of some and chasing others out into the streets where they tripped them as they ran away, and then kicked them while they were sprawled on the sidewalk, scrambling to get up.
Read the rest at Killing the Buddha.com
Upcoming showdown in the Thar Desert shows India staying true to its (momentarily) nonviolent roots. Not. Read more at Killing the Buddha.
Ok, it’s been a couple weeks now, but the Jaipur Literature Festival was an excellent way to begin my travels in India. I was expecting something smaller, not the several thousand in attendance, moving between the three simultaneous events taking place at Diggi Palace. Some highlights included Pico Iyer in conversation with Patrick French about the V.S. Naipaul biography, The World Is What It Is; a screening of documentary, The Strange Luck of V.S. Naipaul; a discussion about Defining Diaspora; and Basharat Peer in multiple presentations, including interviewing Mohammed Hanif, discussing the Fundamentals of Fundamentalism and a talk about Kashmir, past, present and future.
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Anyone pulled from a source longs to go back.
I have been here before, listening to Coleman Barks’s slightly Southern voice reading out loud his translations of Jalaluddin Rumi, the 13th century Persian Sufi poet. I was nineteen and had just traveled around the world on a ship, visited Shinto shrines in Japan, rubbed the bellies of plastic Buddhas in Taiwan, placed hands over flame in temples in India, and drawn sketches of whirling dervishes in Istanbul. I had ended up, somehow, in Athens, Georgia. It was a bit like being dropped into mud after the freedom of the open seas, but there were moments when the boundaries of the little Southern city fell away and the outside world slipped in.
There are love dogs that no one knows the names of.
Give your life to be one of them.
Barks was teaching at UGA when a friend told me about the reading. It took place at night in a bookstore with a witchy bent that sold dried herbs from glass jars and tarot cards in addition to the left-leaning books. The lights were off, candles lighting up the faces of the young crowd as we sat on the floor amidst the stacks, passing a jug of cheap red wine hand to hand while Coleman read. It all seemed terribly romantic.
The minute I heard my first love story,
I started looking for you, not knowing
how blind that was.
When the reading was over, the non-smokers followed the smokers outside to stand under a full moon that ruled the sky, casting our shadows upon the pavement. Cleavers reached out from the edges of the parking lot and clung to the hems of our jeans.
When it’s cold and raining,
you are more beautiful.
All the images of Jalaluddin Rumi portray an old, wise man with a full white beard, but at eighteen, or eight, depending on the telling, he was a young exile on the move. It was 1219 and the borders that separated nations and states were shifting under Genghis Khan’s domination; would continue to shift, only the delineation between land and sea remaining the same as the new maps were drawn over the centuries that bring us to today. Rumi and his family left their home in Persia as the Mongols invaded, moving westward until they reached Turkey. In the journey was the learning, was Hajj, were the chance meetings that shaped his life as a Muslim.
Let the lover be disgraceful, crazy,
absentminded. Someone sober
will worry about things going badly.
Let the lover be.
I haven’t heard or read Rumi for years. The three volumes of poetry I bought that night are scattered – one lent and never returned perhaps, two more in a box in a basement somewhere, I think, maybe. But on the second evening of the Jaipur Literature Festival in Rajasthan, India, a couple of weeks ago, Barks is onstage as I remember him, rotund and bearded. The night air is cool as I sit with friends from New York on cloth-covered folding chairs set up on the lawn of Diggi Palace. Colorful fabric is draped overhead, lit up with white lights. It is all terribly… royal. Barks reads from memory in the deliberate cadence of the poet, looking across the stage to Turkish reed flute player Kudsi Erguner, who leads a group of musicians in accompaniement to Rumi’s words.
Gamble everything for love,
If you’re a true human being.
If not,
leave this gathering.
It is at once transcendent and trite. Is it my stubborn refusal at surrender? My unwillingness to spin, one handed turned to heaven and the other to earth? But I admit my appreciation for any search for God that involves love-making and wine. I wonder, again, hearing this, seeing the images throughout India of Krishna and Radha wrapped in each other’s arms, where did the sex go when God went west? How did it come to be, a bachelor God with no mate? A mother who was a virgin?
Without a net, I catch a falcon and release it to the sky, hunting God.
1971 – I am eighteen months old with a head full of black curls, cradled in my father’s arms as my American mother holds the hand of my four-year-old brother, who is all big brown eyes as he stands close to my mother’s leg. She is meeting her Indian in-laws for the first time. For seven years, they have not acknowledged her existence, but now they greet us at the Madras airport, placing tremendous garlands of fresh flowers around each of our necks – mother, father, son and daughter. A family within a family.
1980 – Ten is the perfect age to take a child to a wildly different place than the one they recognize as home. They are old enough to handle themselves as travelers yet young enough to not be locked into the world of preconceptions that they will soon enter and never quite leave. My parents pack our suitcases with six weeks’ worth of my brother’s and my school books, digital watches and calculators as gifts, and a bottle of Hershey’s syrup to help the malaria pills go down. We are going to India! My cousin is getting married. In my journal, a sporadically filled red record book, there is a page labeled “Unusual Facts.”
Days before the wedding, my female relatives dress me up as a little bride, the weight of the braid extension and gold jewelry heavy on my tiny head. My aunt gathers fresh leaves to grind into henna paste and makes designs on my hands. I don’t remember whether I realized that I was nearly the same age then that my grandmother was when she married. I return to America with the fading red marking of mehindi on my hands, lice in my hair and a hunger to experience other worlds.
1984 – Fourteen is the worst age to take a child to a wildly different place than the one she recognizes as home. I momentarily forget my desire to experience other worlds. I bury myself in Stephen King novels as a means of escaping the ever-present members of my extended family (I have 19 first cousins) and mostly refuse to wear Indian clothes, convinced that the only way to remain an independent human being (read: teenager) is by wearing Jams surfer shorts. But I take note – the bumper stickers that command BE INDIAN, BUY INDIAN, the billboards that remind A SMALL FAMILY IS A HAPPY FAMILY, the warning labels on alcohol, DRINKING ALCOHOL DESTROYS FAMILY, for a country less than a decade out of prohibition. It is Diwali, the Festival of Lights, and I follow instructions to shower, put on my new set of clothes (Indian) and oil my hair. My brother and I set off endless rounds of firecrackers with our cousins, a thousand explosions into the night.
1989 – The hunger has returned. I’m traveling around the world on a ship with a school program and our Indian port city is Madras. As the hundreds of other students diverge, I go awkwardly into the dark night with my uncle, for the first time unsheltered by the interface of my immediate family. I have just read V.S. Naipal’s India: A Wounded Civilization and begin to recognize the immensity of India’s history. My father was born in a colony under British rule. He was a boy as he watched Gandhi lead the country to freedom, and a young man when he found his own by boarding a ship to America. A context develops, dimensions made of stories. At one moment, I am sitting with three of my male cousins, all about my age. We’re watching television when a video comes on for a favorite Bollywood song. They leap up in unison, singing all the words and dancing, jumping on the furniture. There is a freedom and joy and playfulness in their movements that I watch, awestruck.
1993 – I want to see my grandparents one last time. Thatha’s astrologer has announced his death date and it is imminent. I go to the astrologer’s son for a reading of my own, but halfway through, he gets completely flustered, spitting out that that he can’t do it right! I have been born on the wrong side of the planet! He is unsure how to interpret the stars – should he be looking at the placement of the planets as seen from India at the moment of my birth, the assumption upon which all of Vedic astrology is based upon, or as they appeared over New Jersey on that March morning? He tells us to leave, it’s impossible, but not before he has prognosticated that I will problems with my stomach (I will), that there is an adoption on my mother’s side (there isn’t then, but there will be later) and that I will marry a man born east of me. Just months before this trip, I met a man named S. He was born west of me, and I write him love letters on thin sheets of airmail paper. Thatha lives on.
1999 – I’m meeting my father in India; my grandmother is dying. When he picks me up at midnight from the Chennai airport, for Madras has now changed its name back to its pre-colonial incarnation, monsoon rains have flooded the streets and he has had to abandon the car and come in a three-wheeled auto rickshaw that can manage the flood waters. “We’ll go straight to see Pathi,” he tells me urgently, as we drive through the wet, still night. “I don’t know if she’ll make it until morning. She’s been unconscious for days.” When I arrive, my grandfather paces in the dim house. Pathi awakens, sits right up and begins talking in Tamil. She speaks no English. I speak Tamil like a toddler. She kisses me, takes scoops of my cheeks with her fingers and brings them to her lips. We smile and hug and then she goes back to sleep. She will live for another seven years. My grandfather for another five, passing multiple death dates the astrologer pronounces.
2002 – S. comes with me for the first time, though our relationship is a shell of what it was and this decision to travel together is perhaps a bad one. He meets my grandfather and the rest of the family clan, but it is Pathi I wanted him most to meet. She is a small round woman I love with a deepness I reserve for few. We sit together for hours and hold hands, without language. Beyond language. My love for her is unhindered by thought. I bring her tea and snacks and comb her hair. S. takes photos of her and me out on the balcony in the golden Indian light, but the photos disappear inexplicably, a bit like the mortar that held our relationship together for ten years.
2005 – My parents – in a surprise twist! – have moved to India. My father has not lived here for 45 years and my mother, raised Baptist in Chicago, has never lived here. My grandfather has died, a year after 9/11, a date no one predicted. The youngest of the three dancing cousins is getting married and my brother and I sit with the older two on the roof, drinking beer illicitly as we unravel the meaning of life, love and the universe. We come to no conclusions. We have been designing a family website and the four of us are creating an awkward gap as the roots expand and grow around us in the family tree.
2009 – The photos S. took mysteriously reappear, and on a brief visit to NYC, he presents me with 8” x 10” reprints as he holds his new baby in his arms, as his girlfriend walks in the door. Two years ago, Pathi died. I return now, no longer a grandchild on this earth, to a place that is a shifting home, to the place where my father left fifty years – half a century! – ago. India has long ago shed its isolationist ways, although a small family is still a happy family. Time is moving water, and I slip into it.
“This then is life.
Here is what has come to the surface after so many throes and convulsions.
How Curious! How real!
Underfoot the divine soil, overhead the sun.”
~Walt Whitman
There was a great egret, three feet tall if it was an inch, standing in the middle of Flood Street. Before Hurricane Katrina surged the city, there were once rows of houses instead of the weedy wild fields that now fill the expanses between the asphalt. The tall bird stood, considering, and flocks of starlings chattered in their watery language from the branches of the thick oaks that remained standing, battered but alive, nearby. I was in the Lower Ninth Ward, seeing, finally, what had happened to the city of New Orleans.
I lived there in the Big Easy once, when I was an eighteen-year-old kid trying out architecture school before leaving the school and the place in search of something and somewhere else. Then, as now, it struck me as a city from some other time, some other country. Certainly not America. The architecture, intricate and rotting; the food, heavy and complex, distending the belly; the air, wet and erotic; the divide between tourists and those who lived there — the number a fraction of what it once was — a chasm that had grown in some ways and shrunk in others. Everyone we met was kind, generous, some fierce pride about survival uniting them in defeat and resilience both.
The Prospect.1 New Orleans (P.1), apparently the largest biennial of contemporary art ever organized in the country, was taking place throughout the city, at established art museums as well as warehouses that had been transformed into museums, rough with plywood floors and alive with music and sound. There was art at the city parks and universities and Ideal Auto Repair. Outdoor installations included the frame of a woman’s house who had enough money to rebuild, until the contractor ran off with her money, leaving her nothing. Shuttle buses took us out, farther and farther from the screaming sameness of Bourbon Street – to St. Claude and then the Lower Ninth Ward, a place that no one had heard of before August 29, 2005. Rain fell from a slate sky as we passed houses still boarded up and silent. Half of the houses I saw were still marked with the large X — spray-painted signs that rescue and recovery teams who inspected houses, one by one but much too late, left to mark their passage. A date, the agency acronym, a marking of what they found – the number of dead.
Other houses were freshly painted. Life resumed.
It was the second thing I learned about New Orleans before I went there for school, (the first was that there were as many bars as churches, and a lot of both). But the second thing I learned was that parts of the Crescent City lie as much as 18 feet below sea level. It’s an impossible city. They rebuild, slowly, but the levees are still weak and more storms likely. I was reminded of my visit to a relief camp set up on the shores of south India after the tsunami. Another storm will come, someday, but, really, where else are the fisherman and their families who live in these seaside villages to go? In New Orleans, most of the people don’t live off the sea, but they do live below it. I looked at the length of the levee where a rogue barge struck during Katrina, causing or accelerating the breach that resulted in the worst of the damage. The rebuilt wall looks like an eight-foot concrete barrier. It looks insignificant. Unsubstantial. It is not angled, to help lean its slight frame against the wall of water that lies beyond.
More art stood there among the waist-high grass, an extension ladder stretching up to a suspended window frame thirty feet above, defying gravity; metal letters as tall as large child, spelled out in a circle, “HAPPILY EVER AFTER.” Mostly it was wide open space, a place for the birds that have wings to lift them out if needed, along with a few structures, widely spaces. Two trailers parked next to a double grave. The house of Common Ground Relief. A half dozen Make It Right eco-houses like splashes of child’s paint.
But much of the city is as I remembered it from twenty years ago. The stuffed artichoke from Frankie and Johnny’s. The swill at Cooter Brown’s. The smell of iron from the brakes of the St. Charles streetcar, acrid on the tongue. The rain that falls, heavy, lingering in the grand oaks whose branches reach back to the ground, as though they, too, are lazy from the heat.
Go. Remember this place that shouldn’t be there, but is. I recommend the Avenue Garden Hotel, a cozy place right on St. Charles, that is struggling to keep it together as the economy hits the city like yet another storm. Go and listen to the music, transcendent in the night.
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