Going Places India Essay

Colette Standish Professor Jeannene Przyblyski HTCA - Going Places 7th May 2020 An Indian Pilgrimage: The Real and the Imagination “Here I am, at last, ready, at the foot of the mountain that I am going to have to climb. I hear the whisper of solemn words of assumption: the wind at the summit, the contemplation of the valley, the conquest of the peaks, the glimpse of flight…. Does such elation merit, for an experienced climber, racing up the rock face in one go? Here I am at the foot of the mountain. Between the poet and the climber, which one will carry the other, who will be the first to run out of breath?” (Segalen 1) Between the poet and the climber. What does this mean? Why does, Segallen at the moment of anticipation, hesitate between the real and the imagination? Is it the fear of something going wrong? In this essay, I attempt to explore the realms of the real and the imagination and weither they exist separately or collectively, within the context of a journey. The journey, for the sake of this essay, was a pilgrimage to India, my husband and I undertook in 2016. The idea of this trip started the year before, with the usual organization involved in planning a trip, however, it eventually evolved into a pilgrimage. A pilgrimage that began over 20 years ago, when as a fledgling art student at St Martin's School of Art, I wrote a thesis on the 1 Segalen, Victor (2016) Equipee (Leher, Natasha), Atlas Press, London (Original work first published in 1929) 1 erotic temples of Khakhajuraho in India. I vowed one day that I would visit those temples. On a personal level, it was also a belated honeymoon. When we got our visas, the trip started to venture out of our imagination into the real and the journey was starting to unfold. Then disaster struck. I severely damaged a muscle in my back and could not walk. We had planned to go backpacking, taking trains and buses, which meant being often on foot. This was such a disappointing setback and the realness that we may have to cancel the trip came thundering down. Still, after intense physical therapy, a change of transport - a driver and a car - and sheer determination, the day came when we boarded, Air India, ready for a trip of a lifetime. Our arrival in India we met with a challenge that would lasts us throughout the trip. After promising to leave our, ' western ideals' on the plane, we were faced with a major catastrophe: There was no money. The Indian government, a couple of days before, had demonetized the country and all 500-and 1000- rupee notes had been declared illegal tender. The official reason posted in the media was to stop the, 'financing of terrorism through the proceeds of fake Indian currency notes and use of funds for subversive activities such as espionage, smuggling of arms, drugs and other contraband into India' (Kaul, BBC) 2. There was also a second reason - which in retrospect seemed a lot more challenging than the first - was to push India into becoming a cashless economy thereby promoting a more digital India. Unfortunately, the majority of India relies on cash, particularly in the rural areas, as banks are not always accessible. By making high denomination banknotes worthless overnight, the government hoped that those who had black money in this form would not be able to convert it into physical assets like gold. Our driver, Bhagwat, a kind gentleman with a winning smile, gave us 50 dollars worth of rupees in new money, 2 Kaul, Vivek, ‘Can India’s Currency Ban really curb the Black Economy?’ BBC News, November, 2016. https://www.bbc.com/news/world-asia-india-37933231 2 which ironically, at this point, was worth its weight in gold due to its elusiveness - until we were able to get to a bank. All this before we even stepped out of the airport! “Tombs of emperors stand beside traffic junctions, forgotten fortresses command suburbs, the titles of Lost Dynasties are woven into the vernacular if only as street names” (Morris) 3 Delhi hit us like a tidal wave. The heat, pollution, noise, chaos, and the smell of sulfur lingering in the air after a week of festivities celebrating Diwali - the Hindu festival of light, floored us. A full-blown onslaught of the senses! Once we got our grounding back and safe in the car, we watched the chaos of Delhi revealed itself to us. An amalgamation of Motorbikes, people, animals, elaborate colored buses with the Hindu God Ganesh painted on the front coming at you head-on, music everywhere it was like being caught up in a frenzied circus! My heart quickened so many times in that first 2 hours of being in Delhi. Bhagwat, cheerful and with the patience of a saint, welcomed us to his country. The first of many hotels on this trip was near the train station - pre back injury it was convenient for our backpacking adventure to start here. From the outside, it looked like any rent by the hour hotel that you would find in any western city by a train station; neon pink lights enticing you into an illicit twilight zone. Inside it could not have been more different. Friendly and courteous staff welcomed us with tea and water. Meanwhile, the plastic gods scattered around the hotel watch over and protected us. We had arranged to meet my goddaughter, Jerry - who was on her own pilgrimage - for a late dinner. A meal of soup, vegetables and bread revived us briefly from exhaustion. After sending Jerry back to her hotel via a rickshaw, my husband, Tracy and I ventured out into the night. Like most unsafe areas after dark, outsiders start to gather, and ominous 3 Morris, Jan, Page 129 ,’Mrs Gupta Never Rang’ ‘City Improbable’ Viking by Penquin, India.2001. 3 tensions fills the air. There are no bars or cafes to hang out in, so people take to the streets. Strange, homeless, disfigured people approach us for money and food and the smell of sulfur that greeted us on arrival, had turned into human feces. This was my first experience of the real in India. At any time, this would be disturbing, but after an 18-hour flight even more so. Discombobulated, we collapsed into a fitful sleep punctuated with dreams of counterfeit money, Ganesh and sulfuric sunsets. The morning starts with Chi tea and a samosa and a smiling Bagwatt ready to take us to Agra., The imagination is smiling again and is eager to continue on its journey. Delhi is waking up and going about her daily business, and the temples that are squeezed between numerous convenience stores along the way, also start to open their doors. Bhagwat’s running commentary on the various temples is insightful. The complexities of India's religions, Hinduism, Buddhism, Jainism, Sikhism, and their different ideologies is a discussion that is fathomless and one that kept us intrigued throughout the journey. We also find out that it is wedding season, hence all the beautiful elaborate corteges and festivities. Indian weddings are traditionally multi-day affairs and involve many intricate ceremonies, such as the painting of the hands and feet of the bride - mehndi. Garlands are presented to guests of honor instead of corsages, and flowers and rose petals are thrown for good luck. The importance of the groom riding a horse was also explained. The horse is actually a mare and is considered to be more childish (chanchal) than the horse. Riding a mare indicates that the man has gained command of his childish behavior and he is ready to take on his responsibilities. Although interesting, my western feminist ideology was irritated, but as I was in someone else country and culture, I was respectful. Plus, we were on a belated honeymoon, so it seemed appropriate to be surrounded by wedding celebrations. We still had the problem of no money and every bank from Delhi to Agra had lines of people in desperation. We eventually found a bank where the lines were not too big, and patiently 4 waited in line. We were able to get a small amount of cash, but we could not exchange our dollars. Although our accommodation was paid for in advance, we needed cash for food and other essentials. Of course, we could have used our credit cards and ate in fancy overpriced restaurants, but we were interested in street food and most vendors only took cash. While Tracy and Bhagwat battled it out in the bank, I took time out to observe my surroundings. The never-ending sound of traffic and the consistent movement of cows and goats amongst cars and other vehicles, all vying for attention was like watching a performance whereby the animals were the star attraction. The cow is a sacred and respected animal in India and is a source of food and nourishment. They are worth their weight in gold. Which is just as well judging by the constant lines at the banks! Another real aspect of our continuous journey for the elusive, money. By the evening we were in Agra and having dropped us off at our hotel, Bhagwat bids us farewell till the morning. I wondered where he goes after he leaves us, where he stays. I reminded myself to ask him. Six o’clock the next morning, we are at the gates of the Taj Mahal along with all the other tourists. This was very strange to us, as so far, we had not come across any other international visitors. It seemed like they had all gathered at the same spot with their guides and privileges, flipping off the street vendors like flies if they came too close. It was unnerving and vexing to see and we wondered if we had done the right thing in coming. Then the gates opened, and the Taj Mahal emerges from the morning mist and opened up her sensuous body to the sunrise. As first impression, this mausoleum of lost love nailed it. As we got closer, we discovered that half of the building was under construction and the noise of laborers working threw the whole vision off. Again, another reminder of the real in that moment of sublime. The pollution of the city had started to corrode parts of the mausoleum and turn the white marble grey. For some reason, this upset and saddened me, and I couldn't figure out why. Maybe the real was beginning to bother me more than I had realized. It's not as if the Taj Mahal was the only reason for the visit, it was only meant as a 5 detour along the way, but something touched me. We returned to the hotel underwhelmed. Being surrounded by hundreds of tourists in a giant tomb under construction was definitely not what we wanted. We wanted to strike out on our own. The conflict between the real and the imagination was battling it out as to who would win. That night we bought a few beers with the last bit of cash we had, called a truce on the combat, and sat on the rooftop of our hotel. Overlooking this dirty and polluted city, we conclude to deal with it in the morning. Equilibrium restored, Bhagwat updated on plans - to be fair, he had already figured out we were not typical tourists - we were Khajuraho bound. The open road is my favorite place to be, exploring, traveling, going places. Where the real and the imagination, relax, and go with the flow. The real becomes simple, like sharing food, laughter, family stories, and the imagination rests and opens up to daydreams. We stop on the way for rest breaks and take detours to villages off the grid. Men dozing in the midday sun, children running around naked and the women working the land. The vivid colors of women's sarees, blue, green purple, red and gold bounce off the ochre landscape and the smells of jasmine, cinnamon and musk as they ride by on motorbikes, are, intoxicating. The sensuality of this beautiful land rises up to meet us in the kohled, bejeweled eyes and open faces of its people. I drift off into worlds yet to be discovered. “History is true, and I am the tacit testimony, I am, the desire to sow seeds in the scorching desert. Manu's sounds of love, Sujata's porridge, and the sum of sex and yoga. I am everything. Yes, I am Khajuraho, the dream and the reality too” (Jeta) 4 As the odd temple starts to emerge out of the blinding heat, we know were nearly there. Suddenly the land and its inhabitants belong to a culture older than time. Small houses appear and animals 4 Jeta, Rashmi, SixSigmafilms, The Whispering Walls of Khajuraho, Youtube, 2018. 6 start to outnumber people. We cross a small lake and stop for gas. Curious faces gather to see the woman with blonde and red hair as I too stare back in wonder. Children running alongside the car laughing as we drive away. Slowly we entered the town of Khajuraho. All sense of time and place dissolve as we curve around the small streets to our home for the next week. The coolness of the modern hotel is a welcome relief from the intense heat. Mint tea and Balushahi sweets nourish us as we get used to our new surroundings. By now, I know the temples are near as I can feel them, but I am in no rush. I can say that I have waited over to 20 years to see them, so what is another day? I can also say that they have waited thousands of years to meet me. I reach for my sketchbook and start to draw. There is a sweetness of desire in savoring this moment, like playing a seductive game of tease with one’s lover. I am letting them know I am here but not quite ready when secretly I am. This erotic tension transcends through the night into morning. On the way, I am quiet but not pensive. As I step out of the car, a second tidal wave of emotion hits me as the first images of the magnificent sacred temples fill my vision. I can feel all the tension of years of wait and desire evaporate as I approach these ancient monuments of love. I can't speak. That sublime moment when the real and the imagination become one and forever timeless. The journey doesn't seem so long now, but I know it was. Everything up to this point has disappeared, and the only thing that matters is now. My life's work of art, philosophy, the spiritual and erotic, are carved on the walls of these ageless and holy places. After years of being a nomad, I have finally found my home. That first day amongst the temples was spent looking and reacquainting my self with these old friends that I had met through the pages of an art book 30 years ago. With their beautiful spheres and architecture, I sat and watched as the light touched and caressed these old souls breathing life into them and in doing so blushed colors of red and gold. I watched how they yielded 7 to the sun, slowly and sensually. I watch how people interacted with them, but mostly I just stared at their incredible beauty. Nestled in the jungles of Madhya Pradeshm, the Khajuraho Group of Monuments are a group of Hindu and Jain temples. A UNESCO World Heritage Site, the temples are famous for their nagara-style architectural symbolism and their erotic sculptures. Most of the temples were built by the Chandela dynasty between 950 and 1050 CE. They once covered an area of just over seven miles with 85 temples, but now only 25 spread out over four miles remain. The temples were active throughout the 12th century but ended in the 13th century when the Chandela kingdom was seized by the army of Delhi Sultanate. The area where the temples resided remained in Muslim control through the 18th century. During this period, the temples were subject to abuse, destruction, and neglect. Over the centuries, due to Khajuraho’s remoteness, the jungle reclaimed the area, and the temples were mostly forgotten. In the 1830s the temples were rediscovered by British surveyor T.S. Burt with the help of local people. In 1852, Frederick Charles Moisey, an English officer, archaeological surveyor, and painter, illustrated the first images of the Khajuraho temples. Only 10% of the sculptures are erotic in nature and are known as Kama scenes. Kama, also known as a Hindu God, literally means “desire, wish, longing” and is one of the four goals of human life in Hindu traditions; it is considered an essential human pursuit in balance with the other three goals: Dharma, (moral value) Artha (Prosperity) and Moksha (liberation). The architectural structure of each temple is built in three sections. The upper part reflects a systemic symmetrical pose and has no carvings and symbolizes the purity of the mind. The middle reflects the sexual desires of the body and has lots of carvings and the lower part sustains the weight of both, the mind and body. A summarizing of the two. 8 The following days were spent in a frenzied activity of documenting, collecting, drawing and photographing the temples. While entrenched in this mode, the combating real and imagination left me alone. It was almost as if they respected the solemnity of the work and left me to it. Days spent in intense study slowed down at night, and we would eat Thali’s - a selection of various dishes served on a round platter - at local restaurants watching the sun go down over the temples. The occasional time when we did come up for air, we wandered around the town. We got used to the onslaught of vendors, and in time they got used to us and let us be. We visited the Tribal Art Museum of Khajuraho and discovered a 'special lassi', a drink infused with cannabis. The real raised its head only once, and that was at the local teller machine. As Khajuraho is a small town, they don't have a bank, only two cash machines with one policeman in charge. Every other day a security van would turn up and fill the machines, and like everywhere else, there was always a line. On this particular day, as we stood in line, Bhagwat, once again managed to get us to the front. This time though, the crowd was not so forgiving and baying for blood. There was a lot of pushing and shouting. I felt terrified and ashamed. The privilege that I had seen and abhorred early on in the trip at the Taj Mahal came flooding back. I was embarrassed and full of guilt. Eventually, they cooled down as Bhagwat explained the reason why, as tourists, we were allowed to go first was because we needed cash to spend in their shops. As Khajuraho sole economy is based on tourism, the crowd grudgingly agreed. Still, it didn't stop me feeling terrible. My Socialist upbringing screamed at me, and I could hear my mother telling me off. The next day all was forgiven as we bought souvenirs that we didn't want in their shops. By the end of the week, the incident was totally forgotten as we joined the store owners and other the locals in puja – worship - at the Shiva temple. Our time in Khajuraho was ending and it was time to move on. It was sad to leave, but the intense experience of connecting with our spiritual ancestors, will stay 9 with us. I will return one day on a different journey, a journey based on memory revised in poetry and art. We were both quiet and subdued on the way to Udaipur, but our spirits lifted when we caught sight of where we would be staying for the next two days. A floating jewel of a hotel in the middle of Lake Pichola. At the landing dock, welcomed with champagne our hosts whisked us across the lake to where the Rajas of the past spent their summers, an opulent and romantic palace. Perfect for two honeymooners. At this stage of our journey, I am starting to understand India and its culture. Not through rose-tinted glasses but from a real experienced perspective. India is a state of mind. A country of contradictions and extremities. From the homeless on the streets of Delhi and Agra to the wealth of the Taj Palace in Udaipur, where no can mean yes and yes no when you think you have it understood, it throws you a curveball, delivered with a mischievous hundred-watt light bulb of a smile. For all its lightness and excessiveness, India's soul connects deeply into the psyche of the cycle of life. Death is life, life is death, the continuous renewal of the cycle: Reincarnation. In recognizing the depth of the spiritual connection, one can empathize and comprehend that all contradictions come from the same place, the same cycle. Using the analogy of yes means no and no means yes, is not necessarily meant to be an irritant it just means in the scheme of things it's all the same. A sense of humor helps too. This is what I have come to understand and love about India. The journey continues, and the real and the imagination are never too far away. On our way to Udaipur from Khajuraho, we stayed overnight in a place called Kato, a nondescript town in the middle of nowhere. A town whose main economy and source of employment is a large nuclear power plant. A place people rarely visit let alone international tourists. This was the real 10 and definitely not romantic. This is where we got lost. Even Bhagwat had never been before. Eventually we found a hotel and we because a source of amusement for evetyone as the staff had never dealt with international visitors before. It took an hour to check in, because all the staff wanted a selfie with us. Exhausted and hungry, we offered to put Bhagwat up in a hotel for the night and take him for dinner. The windowshield of his car had broken the previous day, and as he was concerned with its safety, he wanted to stay in the car. However, he did agree to dinner, which in the past, when we asked him to join us, he had politely refused. So we there we were, three tourists in a strange town looking for food. Over dinner, we bonded, and Bhagwat opened up about his life and religious beliefs. As a strict Hindu, he was only permitted to stay and eat at certain places (which explains my question as to where he went after he left us). Fortunately, the Jain restaurant – who welcomes all religions - was acceptable. He also talked about the origins of his name and its meaning. Apparently, it is typical for an individual's surname to reflect their community, family, caste, or village of origin. After dinner, we wandered around talking to people and were convinced to visit the 'best sweet and cake shop in India’. I really enjoyed the warmth and friendliness of the people here. This was not a tourist town; it was a working-class town of local people who took pride in the fact that they had the best desserts in India. It was real, as in it was familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. Oh, and yes, the sweets were superb. That night in our unfamiliar hotel we watched the BBC on an old television. Of all the places we visited when we on the road, Kato had the most impact on us. The next morning, Bhagwat invited us to dinner at his family home. 11 “India has known the innocence and insouciance of childhood, the passion and abandon of youth, and the ripe wisdom of maturity that comes from long experience of pain and pleasure; and over and over a gain she has renewed her childhood and youth and age” (Nehru) 5 Puskar is crazy, manic, noisy, intense and smelled of incense and cannabis. Sound familiar? What isn't familiar behind the backstreets of Pushkar is a calm sacred lake where holy men come to bath. By the Ghats, pilgrims gather, and chant prays. This is India in a microcosm. Where holy men, travelers, and hippies share stories. Where the real and the imagination are friends drinking special lassies together, and within this chaos, there is peace. We fell in love instantly Pushkar is a town bordering on the Thar Desert in the northeast Indian state of Rajasthan. It's set on Pushkar Lake, a sacred Hindu site with 52 Ghats - stone platforms extending into the lake where the deceased are buried and where people come to their laundry and pilgrims bathe. The town has hundreds of temples, including 14th-century Jagatpita Brahma Mandir, dedicated to the god of creation, which has a distinctive red spire and walls inlaid with pilgrims' silver. Our room at the hotel overlooked the lake, which gave us some respite from the chaos and chance to rest our thoughts. There had much excitement prier to our arrival, as Pushkar's famous camel fair had been in town, and remnants of this famed fair were still around. Lone camels decorated and attired in the same costumes as their masters and the tribal music of the desert gypsies could be heard through the street’s bazaars. As we were at the end of our journey, we spent a lot of time reflecting and shopping. A lot of fun was had bartering, especially after a special lassi. Watching sunsets and sunrises over the lake, feeding cows and making friends with stray monkeys, henna 5 Nehru, Jawaharial The Discovery of India , The Signet Press, Calcutta. 1946. 12 tattoos, chatting to other travelers who were either starting, midway through, or finishing their journeys like us. Swapping stories as one would share food to nourish the soul. Our last forty-eight hours in India started with a breakfast of tea and thali. We then wandered around until the heat got too intense, then return to the hotel to read, draw, daydream, and nap. In the evening, we visited the Brahmin temple and, with garlands wrapped around us, ate dinner at the Bob Marley cafe and watched the wedding festivities late into the night. With the drums ringing in our ears, we fell asleep. At some point in the middle of the night, I woke up. The music had gone, and the only sound to be heard was a lone male voice praying. A prayer that resonated across the sacred lake over the purple mountains and into the desert beyond. The melancholy of his voice lulled me back to sleep. It was time to leave, but not before we had dinner with Bhagwat's wife and daughter at their family home on the outskirts of Jaipur. I helped his wife and daughter cook chapatie's, homegrown vegetable’s and rice, and watched my husband happy and relaxed chatting to Bhagwat. After a spectacular journey through India this was the icing on the cake. A wonderful family that we still keep in contact with. We never did change the four hundred dollars, so we gave them to Bhagwat knowing he would. Back at the airport, we reluctantly retrieved our 'western ideals.' They were a lot lighter than when we dropped them off. Interesting what you find and lose along the way. The trip to India changed me, not necessarily in a drastic way, but more subtly, even though the experiences at times were far from subtle. What it did do was solidify my visions and philosophies as an artist working in the realms of contradictions within the human psyche, particularly eroticism, which has played a significant role in the evolvement of my art language. India also verified through its religions and spirituality that contradictions can exist on the same metaphysical plane. The real and the images don't live in separate worlds, they too, co-exist in the 13 same one. When, Seglan talks about the real and poetry - imagination - it is from a logical western point of view. Whereas from an eastern point of view it is seen more holistically. Traveling helps one to open up to different perspectives and possibilities. I chose India to open up to because it resonated with my sensibilities as an artist and a human being, others find their connections elsewhere such as Africa or China. Going places and experiencing different cultures and journeys doesn't take away from your own culture but adds and enhances your perceptions of others. But to attain enlightenment, one has to step out of one's comfort zone. Step out into the unfamiliar and start to build bridges with the other until you find common ground, in this case, the real and the imagination. I am often asked if I will ever go back to India, and my response is always the same. I go back all the time via dreams and memories, and each time there is always something different and new to discover. Traveling back to India, through the portal of my imagination and memories, is real. It's a human experience. Not as tangible as the first experience but still equally profound. The real enables the imagination, with the help of poetry, to fly and travel many journeys. Real or imagined. 14 Colette Standish Professor Jeannene Przyblyski HTCA - Going Places 7th May 2020 BIBLIOGRAPHY 1. Chakravarty, Kumar, Klayan, The Art of Khajuraho, Humanities Press Inc, New Jersey, 1986. 2. Deva, Krishna, Volume 1, Temples of Khajuraho, The Director General Archaeological Survey of India, New Delhi, 1990. 3. Deva, Krishna, Volume 2, Temples of Khajuraho, The Director General Archaeological Survey of India, New Delhi, 1990. 4. Doniger, Wendy & Kaker, Sudhir (trans), Kamasutra, Oxford University Press, 2002. 5. Kaul, Vivek, ‘Can India’s Currency Ban really curb the Black Economy?’ BBC News, November, 2016.https://www.bbc.com/news/world-asia-india-37933231 6. Jeta, Rashmi, SixSigmafilms, The Whispering Walls of Khajuraho, Youtube, 2018 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AMWIpknFtNU 7. Kullar, Rupinder & Rani, Varsha, Khajuraho Passion in Stone, India Book Distributers Ltd, Bombay, 1995. 8. Mascaro, Juan, The Bhagavad Gita, Penguin Classics, Middlesex, 1962 9. Mascetti, Dunn, Manuela, Ganesha, Chronicle Books LLC, San Francisco, 2000 10. Morris, Jan ,’Mrs Gupta Never Rang’ ‘City Improbable’ Viking by Penquin, India.2001 11. Nehru, Jawaharial The Discovery of India , The Signet Press, Calcutta. 1946. 15 12. Saraswati, Satyananda, Swami & Saraswati, Vittalananda, Swami, Siva Puja and Advanced Yajna, Devi Mandir Publications, Napa,1998. 13. Segalen, Victor (2016) Equipee (Leher, Natasha), Atlas Press, London (Original work first published in 1929) 14. Toutain, Pierre & Busquet, Gerard, Rajasthan, Harrap Colobus, London, 1988 15. Cartwright, Mark, Khajuraho, ancient History Encyclopedia, 2015 https://www.ancient.eu/Khajuraho/ 16. Rao, Rekha, Erotic Sentiment in Indian Temple Sculptures, Indiafacts Truth to be Told, 2018. http://indiafacts.org/erotic-sentiment-in-indian-temple-sculptures/ 17. Seth, McKnight, Cristin, Sacred space and Symbolic Form at Lakshmana Temple, Khajuraho (India), Khan Academy, 2017 https://www.khanacademy.org/humanities/apart-history/south-east-se-asia/india-art/a/lakshmana-temple-india 18. Vijayakumar, Swetha, The Sacred and the Sensual: Experiencing the Medieval Eroticain Temples of Khajuraho, India, Brewminate, 2017. https://brewminate.com/thesacred-and-the-sensual-experiencing-the-medieval-eroticain-temples-of-khajuraho-india/ 16 17 18 19