Temples

The word that would absolutely never come to mind while in any Hindu temple I've seen so far is "austere". Everything is very... maybe the word I'm looking for is physical? Coming for a culture where the prominent religions mostly want to convey simplicity, purity, and yes austerity, it's a bit of a change. Don't get me wrong, amid the idols and pictures, garlands and coconuts, neon signs and painted statues, there's no lack of spirituality and heartfelt belief, not to mention acceptance.

Our first temple experience came upon us suddenly on the way back from Agra. Meg and I had both dozed off in the back of the car exhausted from the day and the stress of Delhi. Suddenly the car pulled over, Lucky told us to get out and said "Shoes off, Shoes off!".

We got out on the sidewalk, gave our shoes to a man sitting behind a fence, who gave lucky a ticket, walked a few feet to an old woman selling what looked to be plates of flowers. Lucky picked three out and had us pay the woman a few rupees. We followed Lucky through a gate, into a small open courtyard surrounded by a few low buildings connected by roofed walkways. We weaved our way through the complex, and as I started to wake up, I realized people were singing. Repeating a mantra, the only word of which I could catch was "Krishna".
The temple was packed. A white marble room with red and yellow rugs and decorations, three golden figures of gods in three alcoves behind a little fence. We pushed our way to the back, gave our flower plates, which turned out to be long garlands of strung flowers, to the priest, who put some on the god, and blessed three and gave them back. All the while the people were singing, and a group of young boys were starting a circular dance in the middle. We put on our blessed garlands and stopped to watch.

Well that was plan atleast, thirty seconds later a teenage brahmin with a queue (the hairstyle, not a line) pulled me into the center. Excited to be a part of it, I danced around as best I could, locked hands with the kid, and we spun around as fast as I could. I made my way back out to Meg and Lucky, and we watched for a while, then headed back to the car.
I can say in all honesty that it was the most spiritual event of my life. The energy of the place was intoxicating. Everyone was joyous and ebullient, dancing and singing, and happy to see us. It took weeks for the feeling of excitment and happiness I got whenever I thought back to the temple to fade.

To be clear, this wasn't a temple frequented by tourists. This is a roadside temple our guide goes to. We were the only people there not from that area, much less not from India. Lucky, for all that he wanted to kidnap us to his hotel and charge us extra for tours really had a strong desire to show us what he considered the "real" India. The culture he was proud of.
The rest of the drive back, we got drunk (everyone but the driver) and talked about Lucky's daughter, how he wants her to be educated and independent, an equal partner to her husband like Meg is to me. We talked about what Lucky thought the problems facing India were. Number 1 was pollution. Immediately after telling us that, he pitched an empty beer bottle (650ml) out of the window of the moving car, not even checking for people on scooters. This was the second night of the trip, and it was one of the most memorable and powerful nights of my life.

My other temple experiences were all visiting active temples during the day. As far as I can tell, Hindu temples are built with places for people to go an pray or reflect by themselves. There are shrines, but no big single building for group worship like a church.

We went to Chaturshringi in Pune, and a temple in Mahabaleshwar and a few smaller shrines. When the rickshaw drops you off at Chaturshringi, you're on a road underneath a big gate that leads into a wide courtyard ending in a hill. On either side are shops selling offering plates, most of which consist of garlands, coconuts, colored powders, and ribbons. You buy a plate, leave you shoes with the shopkeeper (or at the shoe check, but somehow I felt better leaving them at the store that wanted their plate back) and head into the temple. This involves walking up a hundred steps, past little fountains and benches, and a shrine to Ganesh. When you get to the top, there is a main building and four shrines on little hills around it (Chaturshringi means mountain with four peaks). The main shrine is a white tiled room, with orange plastic benches on the back, and metal railings dividing it up into lines. Yeah I'm aware that sounds like a bus station. All around the walls are paintings and drawings in many styles and many levels of artistry of the goddess. You can stop on the benches and pray and then line up and approach the shrine with two golden idols, already covered in garlands and offerings from people before you. You give you offerings to the god and goddess, tapping your finger in the red powder and touching your forehead between your eyes. The attending priest will give you back some portion of your offering, so you can take it home to your local or personal shrine. You can then pray, exit the room, and head to the surrounding shrines. Or you can start running up and down the steps in your track suits for exercise, like two guys were doing while we were there.

Tomorrow we head to a huge and busy temple, Sri Meenakshi Sundareshwar in the temple city of Madurai. We've spent the past few days looking at icons of South India's religious past, and I'm excited to just stand around tomorrow, watching the crowds in the temple, seeing a modern and active part of South India. Interesting side note, I'm currently writing this from the bed of Royal Court hotel, owned by an Islamic hotel group. This fact was explained to us when we checked in so that we would know they didn't serve alcohol. My first thought was, "I'll bet they have meat!" Turns out that after a few days of no meat, I'll gladly trade alcohol for a "non-veg" menu.

Vacation!

(I wrote this the day after we left Pune, when we didn't yet have consistent internet)

So we're here in our hotel in Mamallapuram / Mahabalipuram. It's no "Central Park by Inox" in Pune, but it's plenty nice. The Mamalla Heritage hotel has a rooftop seafood restaurant, clean and air conditioned rooms, and a very tempting pool.

Oh yeah, did I forget to mention that it's hotter here? Pune's weather was perfect, 70s or 80s during the day, 60s at night, and not very much humiditiy. Here in the state of Tamil Nadu, it's upper 80s during the day, maybe a few degrees colder at night, and way more humid.

Our second domestic flight, from Pune to Chennai, was quick and easy. We already had a flight under our belts, so we knew the tricks. For instance, you get to leave your shoes on at security, but you can actually have way less liquids and gels in your carry-on than you can at home. Most passengers here check their belongings, and just bring a little bag or nothing at all. Speaking of carry-ons, make sure you have luggage tags on them so that security can stamp them. If you try to get on the plane with a bag with an unstamped tag, you have to get searched all over again, after waiting for everyone else to get on the plane. We didn't make that mistake again.

An hour or two of sitting on the plane watching a thunderstorm in the distance, and talking about how amazing it was to be here in India, and we had landed in Chennai.

Once we landed we headed straight for the prepaid taxi stand. We had learned another lesson in Delhi about cabs and touts. This time we paid upfront at the government controlled booth. A car from the Chennai airport to our hotel in Mamallapuram, about 60 km, was approximately 25 bucks. We ended up spending an hour in the back of a sweet old Ambassador, windows down, on a new and well kept road (better than any in Chicago). Along the way we saw a bunch of political posters written in flowing Tamil, mostly with a giant picture of Jayalalitha. Look her up, the politics of South India are pretty interesting.

So our hotel is cute, the room is clean, the town is relaxed and calm. On our way to dinner at "Moonrakers" we saw more white people than I think I've seen in the past three weeks. Most of them seemed fine, but we definitely saw a few intollerable "hippies" having an "India experience", wearing "Indian" clothes I've yet to see on anyone outside of movies or California, and playing four chord songs to the shopkeepers at stores that only sell to tourists. I swear we're polite and open minded to everyone except pretentious rich "hippies".

Anyway, dinner was great. We're going to spend tomorrow admiring the stone carvings that the town is famous for, and one of these days I'm going to write out my thoughts from the past three weeks.

Playing Cricket, err Catch Up

I'm sure all of you are aware that the Cricket world cup is going on right now. I've learned the rules and I'm trying to pay attention, but I'm not even the biggest fan of baseball, and this game takes even longer to finish.

Anyway, I mentioned a little while ago that I got into a nice routine the first few weeks of working in Pune. I enjoyed the differences in culture, my drive to work, how the lines (or "queues") worked in the cafeteria, and the restaurants we'd all meet up at after work. I was having a blast, and the days flew by.

The morning after Meg and I had our philosophical discussion about chance, I left breakfast and headed out to the ZS car. My head was still full of things to write down, when I noticed we had a new driver this week. Oh, yeah, company cars picked us up and dropped us off everyday, and they do that for all ZS employees, it's as nice as it sounds. This week's driver had bedecked his car in blessed garlands from a temple. There were strands of flowers hung in looping arcs over the front grill. I pulled out my notebook and starting jotting notes about temples.

On the way to work, we passed a herd of goats being shepherded along, and then a street puppy in the middle of the road, looking so cute and happy, unaware that cars and scooters narrowly avoided crushing it. Ten meters later, a little girl, no more than six, was squatting on the side of the road peeing, also oblivious to the cars driving by. I pulled out my notebook and started writing notes about my drive to work, the disparity in incomes and styles of life on display in a one kilometer stretch.

(I'll post separate entries about temples and Magarpatta drive, they got a little long for this post)

A random list of smaller things about our time in Pune:

• There are at least two "Burger King" restaurants here, but they aren't the Burger King you're thinking of. They do have beef apparently, unlike Burger Barn, which sounds just terrible. There are a few actual McDonalds, with the Maharashtra (veggie) burger replacing the regular big macs, and the same old chicken nuggets, and an all dark meat KFC.
• Shisha Cafe is an awesome hookah bar in this little fenced in area of bars and restaurants on North Main called ABC Farms (the one with the picture of a cow). Shisha is on the second floor of one of the buildings, and it's just a metal roof with decorative thatchings and oriental rugs covering tables, deep couches, and a little stage. They mostly play jazz, they have live music, and some amazingly good kebabs. It's often packed, and with a surprisingly small percentage of foreigners.
• We also liked Sigree, and loved the Great Punjab. Both serve amazing kebabs and have a great atmosphere. Sigree is a bit fancier, but the staff at the Great Punjab are the best trained of any we've experience so far in India. That didn't stop three waiters from hovering over me, constantly refilling my water and beer as I waited for Meg to meet me. Still, even the hovering is less grating here than at other restaurants. We don't know if it's a cultural trait, but it's probably just the availability of relatively cheap labor?
• Ice cream here is amazing. Real ice cream, no stabilizers, no fake sugars.
• On the way to Mahabaleshwar we stopped at Dhom Dam. Or we tried to stop, but were turned away because a South Indian movie was being shot there.
• The road to Dhom Dam wove it's way through a little village, and our friend Shivendra filled us in on some interesting facts. First of all, bulls aren't really used very much any more, obviously lady cows provide milk, and some bulls help provide more lady cows, but most of the bull's jobs have been outsourced to machines. We still see the occasional bullock cart, but we also saw a few bored bulls. They did have pretty painted horns though. Secondly, temples are often the tallest building in a village, so they make sure to ground them and use them as lightning rods to protect the village.
• Oh, Jenny! In Indian villages they have a special "Horse Ambulance". We saw it!
• We had been seeing a bunch of older men with bright orange dyed hair. Shivendra explained that these were men who had gone gray and wanted to dye their hair, but if they tried to dye it brown or black, it would be obvious their hair had actually gone gray. Dying it orange apparently looks like less a cover up, and more like a stylistic decision.

I think that's all for now. I learned and experienced so many things during our three weeks in Pune, but they were all so cultural and subjective, it's hard to capture them.

Arjuna's Penance

Tomorrow is Matt's birthday, we're in India and I am reminded about how unpredictable life can be. It's the first time we've really spent a few days totally together since Delhi. I'm aware that I've been exploring  alone a lot, as we stumble over each other a bit bargaining for cabs and fending off street hawkers.

Right now, I look down at my painted hands, the ornate detailed henna I got a few weeks ago, fading away and I think about our little room in Pune, lovely 509.  Now, Matt and I are on a rooftop restaurant of our hotel, airing out after a quick swim and an long, hot day in the Mamallapuram sun. Our little guest house garden is lit with strands of winking lights and features statuets of busty women dancing and bathing. In the distance we gaze toward the light house, its shinning eye cricling round and round. Far in the distance a barroaton muzeen calls the faithful Muslims to prayer. Mixed with the singing melodies of buses and gnarly growl of stone carving workshops, Mamallapuram is no ordinary city by the sea.

We spend our day roaming around millenia old ruins. With the sun already high, and the humidity hanging think in the air we headed off to the Shore Temple; one of the oldest stone monument in Southern India. My darling Matt had done all his research, knew the stories and helped me identify the characters. I'll let him elaborate on Arjuna's Penance, and the spectacle of the carvings. What did strike me as we walked along the rows of carved cows and worn down pillars, is that everything eventually returns to where it came. Man's efforts, the celebration of life and love and toil. To carve a stone, a gigantic labor of earthly devotion still can stand erect some 3,000 years later. However, the once elaborate figures, the deep and fantastic relief sculptures, have been smoothed over by the sea. Lapped into submission and faded. They look to me like ghosts, shadows of devotion, of memories and cultures long since erroded into time.

After a quick lunch we were off to Arjuna's Penance. One short kilometer west of Shore Temple, Arjuna's Penance is compled of thunderous boulders tumbled together. Large slabs of dense, grey stone jut out the earth and litter the tropical trees and low shrubbery. Sprinkled with monkeys, goats, the occasional wild dogs and travelers, Arjuna's Penance feels leagues removed from the ancient ruins of Shore Temple. Amongst the boulders, huge cave temples have been carved into the stone. The craft is breath taking, even all these years later, and one cannot help but imagine the sisterns of sweat spilled in their construction. We climbed up and down the boulders, sometimes with the assistance of ancient steps notched into the sides, other time holding hands gingerly as we balanced on the slick slabs. For the most part, the park is unguarded and unregulated. Unfortunately, this means lots of litter and a chance of young couples to sneak away and cuddle. We even saw a monkey steal an young girls small bag of treats out of her hand. Monkeys are a personal least favorite of mine, with there creepy human hands and thorny little teeth. Baby monkeys, like most baby anything are undeniably cute, but there charm quickly wears off.

All in all, I have once again, here I have felt a great sense of longing. I long to work my hands, at building something, anything of significance. I feel the intimacy of many generation of crafts people.  Also, sitting atopt the giant boulder with Matt, gazing out over the city, the sea breeze in our face, I am reminded how lucky I am.  Matt and I, arm in arm watching monkeys play in the sun, on an adventure of a life time. I am trying to cherish all these moments. Trying to tell him how lucky I know I am.

-Meg

Over Look View at Mahabaleshwar, Maharashtra

Shore Temple and Arjuna's Penance

Matt and Meg at the Shore Temple, Mamallapuram,
Tamil Nadu

Shore Temple, Mamallapuram, Tamil Nadu

Lion Carving, Shore Temple, Mamallapuram, Tamil Nadu

Arjuna's Penance, Mamallapuram, Tamil Nadu

Detail, Arjuna's Penance, Mamallapuram, Tamil Nadu

Inside Temple at Arjuna's Penance Complex

Vishnu reclining at "Mahishasura Mardini" Cave

Durga crushing Mahisha at "Mahishasura Mardini" Cave

One of many "flights of stairs" near Arjuna's
Penance

Leaving Pune, Leaving home

I've gotten into a rhythm here in Pune, in a different way than Meg has. I've been working weekdays, at my normal job. Sure, it's different working here, for one I only get to talk to most of my team for about 30 minutes a day. Also, the work cafeteria is a blog post on it's own. But overall, I've been getting up, having breakfast with Meg, going to work, meeting Meg for dinner, relaxing and going to bed. I've settled in, feels like home.

Don't get my wrong, it's been a blast. Every day has been different and exciting, challenging in a million tiny ways. I love it here. But my routine has kept me from writing as many posts here as I wanted to. Every day I would think about writing something, but I just couldn't find the mental energy.

That started to change last weekend. Meg and I had a good discussion on aesthetics and chance, brought on by an art project my friend Dan was working on. Half way through through talkin' philosophy, I stopped and looked out at Pune. The bustling streets, the trees, the beautiful sunset, not to mention the giant bats that were just waking up and taking to the air. All it took was a second, and all the experiences I had been having came bubbling to the surface. The next day, on my way to work, everything I saw seemed significant and emotional. I pulled out my notebook soon after leaving the hotel, and over the next week, I scribbled down what I hope will be the seeds of a few posts to come.

For now, back to packing. It feels weird to leave Pune. I've been calling the hotel "home" for at least two weeks. We repacked and left a bunch of things we won't need at Peter's, sneaking in a tasty meal at Malakka Spice on the way. Spreading out our gear on the floor of hotel felt exactly like it did when we had laid it all out of our floor in Chicago. Tomorrow, we're once again leaving home.

Saturday on Laxmi Rd.

Matt and I after leaving Chaturshringi Temple, Pune

Matt and I in the elevator getting ready to go out,
Central Park Hotel, Pune

Mocha Cafe, N. Main, Koregan Park, Pune

Matt and I overlooking the mountains at Mahabaleshwar, Maharashtra

Matt and I overlooking the mountains at Mahabaleshwar, Maharashtra

A Weekend at Mahabaleshwar

Hi All, these are some images from our trip up into the mountains this past weekend. I know the collages are small here, but if you click on the image it will take you to a larger image you can check out more clearly. More updates on our travels to follow!

View from Peter's Porch

View from Peter's porch, Lane 8, Koregan Park, Pune

A Child's-Eye-View

My mom is a third-grade teacher at Suttons Bay Elementary in Traverse City, MI. She has been sharing the not pg-13 parts of our blog with the kids in her class. They had some questions about India so they sent us an email. This is what 12 year olds want to know:

Questions from the kids:

1.  Can you catch the monkeys?

2.  Can you feed the monkeys?  Do they eat bananas?

3.  Can you bring them a monkey?

4.  Do they have phones?

5.  What kind of shoes do they wear?

6.  Do they have t.v.?

7.  What kind of clothes do they wear?

8.  Why are the cows holy?

9.  Why are the cows allowed in the road?

10.  Do kids go to school like we do?

11.   What do the houses look like?

12.  Were you standing on a table in the picture?

13.  How big are the houses?

14.  How do you like the different kinds of food?

15.  Will the monkeys bite you?

16.  What other animals are there?

17.  How do they write?

18.  What kind of music do they listen to?

Kids are the best. 

View over Bridge, Bundgarden Rd., Pune

On the way to Dinner, N. Main St, Pune

Matt & Meg have an awesome dinner with live jazz at Shisha, Pune

Chaturshringi Temple

I started off the day simply. Yogurt and egg breakfast after a mild case of "Delhi Belly" has set me back two days. Not long after breakfast, I realized Matt had forgotten his malaria pill, so I called the front desk for a car and headed off to Magarpatta City. Matt had told me about his trip to work, the dycotomy of traveling though East Pune slums into Magarpatta City which is bold, new and clean. Indian slums are interesting because they are unquestionably slums, genuinely destitute economic situations. There dirty and lively, full of goats and kids and abandoned tires, all held together with painted corrugated metal. Though the protected gaze of the car window, they did not feel violent, but quite the opposite. Calm microcosms: mini societies taped together though time and the left overs of other's lives. There is a simple beauty, a distinct lack of anger, of feeling shorted. In America, the closer you get to riches, the tighter the social stratosphere, the more vodka and prosaic soaked are the lives are behind closed doors. The slums of India are out in the open, without shame. I guarantee no nights are waisted here on worries of cellulite, getting into "the right club" and a fear that homosexual marriage will taint the mortar of "family values."

These societies are entirely beyond my universe, too far even for empathy. It is elitist of me to "admire," and no more a personal romanticism than the deluded members of the Osho, searching for the "truth of the East." Still, I cannot help but notice how bikes are left alone on the street, how unattended carts are undisturbed, how the elderly are helped dress. I do know Chicago, I know it wouldn't happen there.

We drove, and I chatted with the driver, who loves Beyonce and managed to get me amazingly car sick. A quick stop to drop off Matt's pills and I jumped in the front seat. The driver and I chatted about the nature of the slums and poverty of the mind versus poverty of the world. Here in India, spirituality (not religion) is right on the surface. The driver was impressed I had gone to Chaturshringi and knew the Ganesh statue on his dashboard. We drove though the dirty lanes to the melodies of Eminem until unexpectely the driver pulled over and told me he wanted to show me something. I have lately adopted the the "why not" philosophy, so I got out and followed him. Passed a few slumbering cows, some giddly school children who jumped and pointed, under a woven curtain and down a narrow corrugated hallway. In one little room sat another little old lady, next to an altar. Painted like an exotic bird, hung in garlands and shrouded in bowls of food, it was beautiful. I don't understand Hinduism, but I understand love and hope, so I know enough. My driver knelt and said a small prayer. I mimicked as best I could. I was dotted on the forehead and offered half a coconut full of what I was told was coconut juice pulled from a great metal bucket in the corner of the shack. My driver drank the coconut and I held mine to my mouth as a gesture of symbolic appreciation.

This was not going to satisfy the woman by the altar. She started speaking rapid Hindi and I attempted to explain though flappy hand signals that I could not actually drink what she had offered me. I looked over at the bucket and my imagination took hold. All I could see were tiny cartoon illustrations of dancing parasites like the personified buckets of popcorn dancing before old silent movies. The bucket was a pool of little jin demons, dancing, dancing. I thought, "you incredible liar: "the beauty of the rural, the simplicity of it all... your'e afraid of the water." Afraid.

 I pulled the coconut to my forehead in an attempt to signify earnest thanks. But still, no good. She took the coconut back from me noticeably offended. I was trying to explain myself in any words I could think of, then, in one perfect movement, she poured the coconut juice into my mouth. Once again, I had speed right past my comfort zone, and in an involuntary reaction, I spit the piss tasting juice out. Onto myself. And the woman. And the altar. Let's say it was the social equivalent of swearing at the Pope. A pretty big "no-no." We three sat there for a second, my eyes shifting nervously back and forth like one of those 1950 owl clocks. Mind says: "shit."

Eventually, my driver, turned his back on me and headed to the car. He opened my door and stated formally, "I will take you back to the hotel madam." One silent ride back, I realized that guilt feels the same in every country. With images of tiny animated germs still dancing ring-around-the-rosy while weaseling there way into my gullet I sprinted from the car desperate to vomit in my safe little home at 509. After a panicked g-chat with Matt, I realized we brought medicine for this type of thing, and decided to sit down and write. You've got this. Or had this. Or did you? One very long blog entry, two pots of black tea with raw ginger (for their anti-microbial properties) later the tight little panic in my chest relaxed. Now, I am going to head out to the market in search of some raw garlic. After a few cloves, I should be good, stinky, and ready for the next adventure.

  

Me at the gate of Chaturshringi Temple, Pune

From my trip to Magarpatta City, Pune

Magarpatta Drive, Pune

Magarpatta Drive, Pune

Magarpatta Drive, Pune

Magarpatta Drive, Pune

Magarpatta Drive, Pune

Magarpatta Drive, Pune

Magarpatta Drive, Pune

The Clumsy Foreigner

Earlier last week, flushed with the success I had experienced traveling though Koregan Park---- discovering this charming little store, that sweet old couple----- I got too bold and wandered off into a dangerous part of town. There I had full-blown-out-of-the-bag-foreigner experience that sent me quivering back into my little hovel in room 509 at the buffed bronze Central Park Hotel. All afternoon I could hear my mama's words echoing in my ears. A twelve year old Meggie, and an eight year old Cora, all covered in freckles and bubble gum, holding tiny hands, and listening with tiny ears about the larger than life world. Mama packed our bags, zipped our jackets and said:
"Always have a buddy."
"Watch your things."
"Trust yourself
 and you'll be safe."

I returned home, panicked and furious with myself, my mother's words whispering like a conch shell in my ears. The next few days, it was back to my comfort zone. Explore the park, go shopping, order tea. A few days after that, I felt comfortable leaving my head scarf at home. I was resolved to wrap myself up in India, learn her rhythm, be safe inside her. Still, I was tenuous. Big me remembered little me, wading out into the icy waves of Lake Superior, gripping grey sand with my toes, arms stretched out in the waist deep water. Steady Meg, steady, breath in, you've got this.

So, I readied myself. You've got this. Back into a rick shaw. You've got this. More than three attempts to pronounce name later, a small dot on the map turned sideways, upside down and finally abandoned, the cabby pulled a lever, started the engine, and we were off to Chaturshringi Temple. Now, my first expereince at a temple with Lucky had been amazing. That being said, Lucky carried us completely, and now I was an empty little hand, holding my cheaply colored map, trusting myself.

In India, I can usually keep track of the direction we are heading for about three turns of three minutes, which ever passes first. We traveled for a bit, and then a bit more. Longer than I had imagined the tiny dot on the map was away from the tiny dot which is my room 509 home. As we traveled, I watched the signs of westernization fade. First bill boards, then jeans, then exposed shoulders. It's interesting, that little voice inside you. The expression is, "on your shoulder." I think my little voice lives in my chest.

We arrived. I stepped out of the rickshaw and looked up at Chaturshiringi, a red brown temple with a white  crown. Brown steps up to a white gate. Brown earth around the sides, brown buildings, brown beautiful women with bright scarves. I was bare legged and shinny white. Brown earth on white toes, red hair on a white face with no red third eye. It was clear I had traveled outside of the western comfort zone. There were no beggers, no plywood shantys selling cheap Chinese flip-flops and glossy cards of the Taj. No off-putting Osho guests---- just me. White legs under a brown arch. Other places we had been had travelers, guests you could say. Chaturshiringi is owned by the locals, so there was nowhere to buy tickets, no way to purchase my right to join. You've got this. I slipped off my shoes, held onto the brown sand and waded in.

I walked around puzzled for a few minutes before I was approached by a lovely old woman in a crinkled sari. She was an Brahmin who stayed at the temple. She spoke no English, but looked me in the eye with a toothless smile and gestured to my exposed knees. Every so often, I have a dream where I am out to dinner and not wearing a shirt. In my lucid sleep I secretly hope no one notices my nakedness, my exposition. This was not dissimilar. In no words and very few gestures, it was clear that my crooked little knees were a problem here, and I was ushered back out the gates. I found another rickshaw, climbed inside  and sat there for a full five minutes. My little chest pounded, and tightened.

Okay. You've got this. I made up my mind I was okay in India. It was okay to learn, to try again. I had the cabby take me to a clothing store, where I purchased an over priced pair of jeans, a t shirt, scarf and the store clerk assuring me "looking so Americans" headed back to the temple. I was greeted at the gate by the same old woman who was unmistakenly happy to see me. She ushered me in and once again, shoes off, scarf on, wade in.

I purchased a large plate to offer. One coconut, one bag of rice, three wreaths and something folded in a swatch of cotton. Now Chaturshringi temple is unlike the temple we visited with Lucky. Over 100 stairs unfold under the three arches. Little avenues of prayer skirt off periodically traveling to little buildings tucked into the side of a giant hill. Lacking the knowledge of grace, I peeked in as I climbed, to see groups of Indians sitting on the floor praying to small altars. I reached the top of the stairs. From the crux of Chaturshringi I could see just above the tree line, staring out onto the meadow of all of Pune. I stepped inside the small building set high atop the hill to find a knotted man sitting on a stool eating peanuts and reading. He was likely 100th on the list of things I expected to find in the temple, so I stood and stared like a guppy.

Guppy Meg, little hands, holding a big plate with an offering to anyone who would take it. The man gave me a side mouth smile, as if he were trying not to, and pointed me to the adjoining room. Inside the main temple was a set up very much like the kiosk for buying cinema tickets. Three rows to form lines leading up to a counter. Three altars with deities situated behind them. The few individuals also visiting the temple slipped past me, not unpleased but entirely ignoring my presence. Eventually, a man behind the counter gestured me forward and sheepishly I brought my big guppy eyes and big fumbling plate to the front. I mimicked other young women place their offerings. Wreaths here, rice there. The man behind the counter stopped me about half way, and helped me touch each offering to my head and temples before placing it. On each of the young women he placed a small red dot between the eyes. When it was my turn, the man took my hands and held them. He looked at me and I looked back. I looked up into his eyes and found them white and cloudy. He was completely blind. When it came my time to receive my dot, I thought I would slip out. Instead, he just held my hands. Then he opened a piece of folded news paper and for lack of a better word, painted my face. One long white stripe across my hair line, one yellow dot between my eyes and three red stripes, stretching from brow to cheek, like a stilled sunset strung across my guppy brow.

He smiled, as though proud of his work, then turned away from me and I was on my own. I was given back a plate of roughly half the contents of what I had originally brought. I gathered up my blessed objects, slipped back on my slippers and headed back to the hotel feeling clean and calm. I decided not to take a picture of my face, it felt invasive, but instead washed it with a ponds wipe I had in my bag. I clambered into a rickshaw and headed off to Bund garden. I have written about the second part of my day in the post before this, surprised that, that had been an easier situation to process.

Today has been my third and again uniquely different temple experience.

Looking Back

I am now sitting at Osho Park  owned and opperated by the Osho Ashram. The locals hate the Ashram for it's open group fornication and skimmed down versions of cherished Indian practices. As if to shock myslef, I find I identify with the locals. I make a keen effort to seperated my westerness from Osho westerness. My knee-jerk reaction seeks the local approvial. I want to feel am I am safe here, not part-of but not apart. Small fish in a great whale.

Once again, today was bigger than me, and too much has run off the top. I cannot encapsulate India. The deeper I breath, the more India rushes in. Into my lungs and hair and under my nails. By the time I crawl home in the hot afternoon, India has soaked up the natural odor of my body and painted me fully with herself.

Before I traveled here, I think to what I knew of life here, what my impression was. In my head, India was images of devout ascetics and starving children on posters for Christian charity. It's food to tempt new dates, a topic of avoidable politics and kitschy elephant figurines from Pottery Barn. I knew it was scarce, guessing a foreign place is like watching a strangers on the street, their there with you, but you only know their dolls.

 At the moment there is a group of teenage girls, in mixed Hindi and western garb giggling and staring at me. One approaches slowly with others huddled behind, egging her on. They peek sheepishly at me as if approaching an older boy on the playground. I know they have questions, I know they have thoughts. I know they are interested. I am much an oddity to them. I suppose I am the cutout from People Magazine. I look like TV shows and structured western clothes which collapse here under the heat. I have short hair, I have freckles, an ipod, and make-up. In Agra and Delhi, young girls and boys would walk up and ask to take a picture with me. I couldn't see the harm. It's not about harm.

I turn back to my writing.

But, I can feel you watching me.
I can feel you wanting to ask.
What is it that you want?
Do you even know?

Every morning on my way to this part of the town I pass a row of cupcake princess dolls that beggars lay out in the street for sale . Little arian angels in green, orange, pink and blue crinalin dresses. They are each pearched on little wooden stands, tiny pink cheeks, tiny glossy hands, silky yellow hair tied back like knotted spaghetti. I see these little dolls, lined up on the side of the road as an endless parade of rick-shaws, cattle cars and trucks march by, spitting dirt and funes. Every morning I pass them and wonder; who buys these little angels? Who are they for? The Indian women who sell them lie in dirty saris on reed mats stretched out over the side walk. A row of backs like staggered dominoes resting in the shade. Lady Domino and the little cream angels.

Today, on my way to explore a new garden, I had mispronounced the name and was taken instead to an in-process construction site. After a few stops, I abandoned the quest to find the place and asked the rick-shaw to take me to Osho Park. Directionally disoriented inside the rick-shaw I leaned out the non-existend door a bit to gaze over the field of motors and gather my bearings. It wasn't until the man next to me had pulled out his iphone, snapped a few images of my breasts and unzipped his pants, that I got the sick feeling I had a few days before. I thought: "I am the lost angel hair doll out in the road." I watched the man through his open wind window play with himself, without shame or hesitation.

Before, when I thought of India, I thought of the sights to see. My big eyes, a continuous 35mm roll romantically, spinning though pages of National Geo specials. I failed to realize, in my painted-planet romance, that they see you back.  They want to know the way I want to know. They want to touch, and ask, and jerk off, to me the way I am to them. I have tried to be as passive and respectful as I can here in India, where English is as common as skinny jeans. But I have not. I am not a one way mirror. I am not ineffectual. I am a minnow carried in the belly of a ship to sea, and released. 

I've written this post twice now, and twice unpublished. Its no more shocking than a hundred stories I have of late night EL rides though Chicago, or broken down buses on the Fung-Wa trip though NYC's Chinatown. And yet, I typed and deleted. Typed and deleted. And then I realized the difference. I didn't want to share with you. 

I wanted for you a rose water and curry India. An elephants and noble natives fable. I wanted to wrap up the faux antique market crafts and present it to you like a child on Christmas. But, I'm not going to. India is a place unlike any I have ever been. It's not a fantasy, and it's not a fiction. Its a world of dark earth past, and wild evolutionary future. In my exposed truth, I came here wanting. Wanting change, wanting honesty, wanting. So I will take India and I will give it back to you. I will see how it goes and I will see who I am.

Documenting India

Rugs for sale on North Main Road, Pune

Two men squeezing juice from sugar cane, Pune

Local house in Western Pune, Pune                                                                                                                                                                                            

Lane 5, Koregan Park, Pune

Booth outside of Chaturshringi Temple, Pune        
Here you can buy wreaths, coconuts, rice and spices to offer at the temple.                                   

From my rickshaw to the community bus, Pune.                                                    

MG Road, Pune

Left: Me in a new Indian style dress
Middle: View down Lane 2, Koregan Park, Pune
Right Top: Matt and our guide Fez in the horse drawn ride to Taj, Agra
Bottom Right: scooters lined up during lunch, Laxmi Rd, Pune

Left: Personal shrine of Sheva dancing on her avatar, Lane 8, Koregan Park, Pune
Top Right: Cow crossing the street, Bundgarden Rd, Pune
Bottom Right: Osho member rides bike by empty field of kids playing cricket, Lane 8,
Koregan Park, Pune

Rockin' it to Brian Adams!

Picture: Akanksha, who is fantastic!

Location: Koregan Park, Pune, India
Place: Kiva, Native American themed bar/restaurant
Company: Matt's work cronies, American + Indian + Meg

It's Saturday night and we're going out! Officially one week into our adventures here, its finally the weekend, and Matt and I can enjoy going out together!

It was mid afternoon and Matt and I had a few hours to kill before meeting up with his work friends around the 7:30 at this cool Naive American themed restaurant called Kiva. Earlier this week I had made some new friends who, in a gesture of cultural courtesy took me to a place called "Burger Barn." The cute red bricked menus featured items such as the "Barn Barn Burger" and the "Giant Garth Brooks." In case you were wondering, a "Barn, Barn Burger" is constructed as follows: 1) lentil and chicken patty 1) slice of salami 1) fried egg 4)slices of raw carrots & approximately 30)tsp of mayonaise. The hotel in which we are staying has a to die for Indian menu with an occasional "John Wayne Special" (a harmony of all the meats offered on the menue folded together on salad) thrown in for good measure. With these little tidbits of American culture floating around in my head, I was unsure, but very excited to see what we would find at the Native American themed eatery. To my great suprise and in total honesty psuedo disapointment, Kiva is a tastfully decorated tapas bar. The ceiling has details of knotted wooden tembers in the Hopi tradition, with antique photos of Sitting Bull surrounded by woven handicrafts and earthen wares. The furniture was modern and simple, and from a critical desing eye, I have to say, it worked.

Picture Above: Rui, Anil and Akanksha (I may have spelled all of those wrong, to be corrected later :)

The irony of the night, came later. It had not been twenty minutes after we and the other parts of our party arrived when the music kicked on, we noticed our dinner coasters annnnnnnnndddddddd, it was ALL BRIAN ADAMS ALL THE TIME. Now, for those of you, like myself, who would likely fail a "Who wants to be a Millionaire" quiz of exactly who Brain Adams is, here is what I now know about Brian Adams.

Brian Adams made it big with two songs, "Have you every love a woman?" and "In the summer of '69," both quinessential to the Classic Rock Station genre. So, as luck would have it, Brian Adams is coming to Pune!!!!!! WOW! So, as the night followed, we rocked it out to the alternating 5 Brian Adam's songs that the DJ had until Matt's colleague Akanksha asked it there would be willing to "change it up a bit." From there, it was urban techno, paired with buckets (not an expression, an actual bucket) of the local beer, KingFisher. (Incidental side note: to my knowledge, KingFisher owns a large and fantastic brewery and an Airplane company. Matt and I have tried them both and we approve). As the night  moved on, the place was crowded, and memories become warm and hazy. At the stiffing hour of 11:30, Kiva closed down for the night. We stumbled out, wandered over to a "late bar" who served us til midnight, and then it was off to Peter's. Peter is a friend of Matt's from ZS who is fantastic. Peter has taken the leap of transferring to the Pune office here to work and live. I adore Peter. He is quirky, open, and excited about life. I applaud and envy and entirely understand his moving here. For my jokes of Brian Adams, and the issues between cultures, dress, language, ect, I have not met a more sweet, open and fun-loving group of people than we spent  our Brain Adams marathon Saturday with. Below are a few pics form Peter's house. We are all sitting on the floor because his furniture is being held in customs in Mumbai for the past month.

Above: Meg and Matt, (Matt is either: playing the sitar or dj-ing, there was a lot of that)
Below: Meg, Matt, Rui and Ron all packed into a Rickshaw at 2am heading back to the hotel. For middle-of-the-night-other-side-of-the-world, it felt so much like high school.

Peter, who is awesome. 

Falling for Pune

We have only been in India a long week now, and I am already drastically behind on our adventures. So, I have decided to abandon the chronology for now and record the more recent events while they are savory and fresh. With any luck, we will persevere and fill in the gaps later. I think traveling is much this way, patchwork memories clumsy sewn together.

Our first day in Pune I spend laboriously washing our dirty clothes, cleaning up our hotel room which Matt and I had utterly trashed in minutes upon arrival in a half delirious attempt to find something or other. The rest of the day was sleeping and watching 70s themed Baliwood movies in Hindi on the TV until Matt came home. It was not really until day 2, Pune that I really branched out and started to explore. After Delhi we had gleaned some insight and I wanted to start at the shallows and wade in.  It was not long, however, before I realized that Delhi is the Gary, IN to Pune's, Chicago... ostensibly, worlds apart. Pune is clean (relatively speaking) and charming. The streets have the same brashy driving, but there is a grace to it here. Pared with sidewalks, more westerners, and large, bushy trees everywhere, Pune is without question a rival for the most pleasant place I have ever been.

As advised, I started my adventures in Koregan Park, which is the most affluent, westernized and exciting part of Pune. In the early 60s Osho Ashram, located on the edge of Koregan park was founded by ____. With courses like "taste of your inner chocolate" it quickly became a pilgrimage for hippie westerners and European exoticness. Over the course of twenty years, the economy around Koregan Park grew and diversified as a result of the Ashram, but in the late 70s roomers of oddities surrounding the Ashram pushed it's founder to travel to the US where he founded a second Ashram. This new location blossomed as well until it was shut down for tax evasion, racqueteering and suspicion of prostitution, and the leader quickly fled to Switzerland where he died in exile in the late 80s. Anymore the scandal has very little to do with Koregan Park, but as I walk about the dusty streets I like to think of the overarching impact one crazy little man can have on a community. That thought is of-course dwarfed by the dominant presence of American memorabilia colorfully advertised in the boutiques and shopping plazas. Especially here in Pune, Indians drink up anything American like a dehydrated sponge; except for me, they largely leave me alone. Pune Indians want to be Americans not know Americans. They don't want to not know you either. I am simply offered goods, nodded to as I pass by and occasionally touched on the head followed always by either the phrase, "gold," or "sun gold."  In the four days I have been in Pune, my affection for this city spreads wider and wider. I think, unlike anywhere else I have been, this place suites me most of all.

It is busy, bustling and hectic. I relish in the communal intimacy that you get only in large metropolitans like New York and London. Here, I am one little lost bee. I sit at my cafe, walk along my streets, an undisturbed part of the buzzing, building hive. Unlike other cities, Pune has the softness of a Caribbean cabana shack left to age out in the sun. The city is breezy and old, the once brightly colored buildings antiqued with a think layer of dust. Women in vibrant colored silks and men in 1970s style tight shirts and thin cut pants decorate the streets and window sills. For how dense the population, there seems to be a one to one scooter/person ratio, and you are at liberty to park them wherever this is a blank space. Here all the cars, streets, and shops, are either well worked, well loved, or pulled together with what was at hand as best it could be. The effect is like living inside a vintage photo album.

Nature is also allowed to run wild here. Pune does not have the gaping-mouthed-hollowed-out corners of Delhi or Agra. Here the jungle presence is just that: present. In Agra there were monkeys galore, with plump little bellies from community feeding as a tribute to the monkey god, Honuman, god of power. Here in Pune it is mostly hawlks and cows which roam, roost and feed as they please. One of the few things I did know about India before we traveled here was the presence of the holy cow. The difference between knowing and experiencing should never be underestimated. I am still enjoying the presence of cows. They show up unexpectedly like pop up adds on a browser. One minute your going about your daily business and the next, "pop!"--- cow. I sat in a coffee shop yesterday and watched a bustling intersection at the corner of North Main St. and Mahatma Gandhi St. flail about in ciaos as three big sows chewed on a ruck sac they had absconded from a neighboring shop. Not more than an hour later I was exiting the loft of a carpet dealers shop while searching for gifts and turned to face the rear end of a cow who had wondered into the covered bazaar of the market. A group of men were trying to lour the confused beast out with food while sari clad women shooed it from behind with reed brooms. 

  

A huge tree outside of Osho Ashram. These huge trees are called batas by the locals and each have a numbered plate on them. Technically, they are protected but are unfortunately are often sick due to drunken locals urinating on them.

Cow in the road at M.G. St. 

MG street view