Field Report 22:
India - December 2, 1999

By Jeff Bell

The Kali Temple

Words flowed from my guide's mouth. My ears and brain of course operating silently, unconsciously, separating the stream of sound of one voice from the choatic sounds of the crowd. It's a festival day, Diwali. My focus though is on a wide stream of blood, stretched before me like a thick river in a mad forest of people. Animal sacrifice, it dawned on me, though it took a long couple of long moments to register.

I was in the midst of a place which was...so very unusual, yet I wasn't feeling surprised or shocked. I felt detached, no emotional involvement. All morning, wandering the streets of Calcutta, I hadn't recalled seeing a single "Westerner". I sought that, enjoyed it that way. Only later would I figure that I was as close as I'll ever get to be transported back in time, perhaps 2,000 or 3,000 years. As real as it would ever get. Strange, I allowed myself to feel little, but was aware of much.

A man was guiding his goat to a bloody, cordoned off area beside the temple. A swirl of images about: burnt offerings, woman in saris, men in loose cotton clothes, hot sun beating down, the dot on the forehead, public evidence in a way, that religion has crossed your path, crossed your brain at some point that day.

The man with the goat gave the unsuspecting animal a final, caring wash of water about its neck. He paid a large man what looked to be 100 rupees, about a day's pay for a laborer. With a short pause, perhaps a prayer, the owner lifted up his goat, pulling its front legs to its stomach. Now filled with deadly fear, the animal was placed between two vertical posts and allowed to stand. It became calm again. The executioner placed the blade of a medieval looking long sword, curved forward rather than back, onto the washed goat's neck. In a single quick lift and descent, he cleanly decapitated it.

What was a moment before a quivering, quick moving thing was instantly transformed into two pieces of inert matter. That life story was sharply finished, like the snap of a book slammed shut. Entropy was suddenly master over the body that had for some time successfully defied it. The complex mass of matter that was that goat would now quickly return to its more simple, elemental state.

The scene nearby was gruesome. Another man, surrounded by goat's head and bodies, was taking the skin and sides of a goat head off with simple strokes of a large knife. I had come all the way to this land of vegetarians and non-violence to witness my first glimpse of the goings on of a slaughterhouse. Later I read somewhere that the practice of slaughtering animals at temple alters is a practice that is on the wane, but slowly, in India.

Sacrifice

The goat was sacrificed by its master. The owner sacrificed his possession. Gandi sacrificed all wealth and all but a few possessions. Jesus sacrificed his life. Mother Teresa sacrificed. All made with an eye to God, to please Him. Everywhere it seemed, Calcutta reminded and cried out the message: humans from the very beginning have identified sacrifice as a path, perhaps a necessity, to get closer to their God, to holiness.

India IS different from any other place on Earth: supposedly 99% of the people believe in God. For a moment, think of God as simply everything. And as near as I could tell, that was the sort of absolute faith people had about God. Of course there was a God, and God's presence seemed to be in the forefront of minds everywhere you went.

In India, ancient beliefs and customs seem to be as alive as ever, caught in a state of suspended animation side by side with the modern. Everywhere you would run into educated minds of great sophistication and insight as you would meet illiterate people who clearly live simple lives. One shopowner pointed out to me that a fellow who seemed preoccupied with my camara was from a small village and had probably never held or looked through a camara. Perhaps it follows that the less you have, the more you must rely on faith. Faith also goes hand in hand with a sense of peace and good will, visible in the eyes of many people you meet, and all the many kind offers and comments.

Had to visit Calcutta

I was only in Calcutta for about 30 hours. I visited two centers Mother Teresa set up. There was a section housing 75 infants, mostly girls, mostly abandoned. They mostly wanted to play. There was a section for handicapped children and they mostly wanted you to hold them. Then there was the Kalighat center for the dying. They were the most desperate. Grown men staring out at you from their cots, pleading with their eyes, far more desparate than any of the children.

I wandered around the city, observing, until finally my feet were tired. Crowded streets, every one of them, bustling with people. Derelict cows wandering about, cars, buses, trucks, carts pulled by ox. Feet that have known saddles perhaps, but never shoes. Slums, awful, but no worse than I expected, thank God. Bad, bad air. Where would many of them get clean water? The bad air they'd never escape. I bought some puffed rice and nuts from a vendor who put a drop of oil on them from a can clearly marked "Basso Metal Polish". I gave it away. Perhaps I should have thrown it away.

People appeared to not be starving, thankfully, true of everywhere I went in India. People sleeping on the streets for sure, a few desperately thin legs and arms, but the real worry that any Westerner would feel is that there had to be millions—hundreds of millions, taking into account all of India— that were one large natural disaster, or a few consecutive drought years, or a major political upheaval away from death. The recent cyclone killed perhaps 15,000. But there was a sense that something 1,000 times worse could happen, it was in the hands of God. Faith. Ordinary Indians certainly worried, but their suffering, if they suffered, was probably centered on day to day concerns: how to make money, the next meal, getting from here to there, people and government problems.

While all human life is at the mercy of fate and God and the heavens, the thread that most Indians clinged to—every bright face, beaming with hope—seems thin by comparison with the rest of the world. Though better than it was 3,000 years ago for certain, the stakes, the scale was so much greater now: one billion people. Good people, bad people, capable people, happy people—all at risk. The sad and desparate ones too.

Most people seem to be getting by, you just got the feeling the ones that were suffering badly were largely in remote places you'd never go to. Or in dark rooms in shanty towns in big cities, without the means to escape. Just how many were just a disease away from suffering, without medicines, much less a hospital, was an overwhelming thought, a negative way of looking at things in a land where faith reigns. There is clearly no quick fix.

The truth of the incredible frailty of the human condition that has existed for thousands of years comes clearly into focus in India. For many ordinary Indians that truth today isn't a ton better than it ever was. Every rickshaw driver I met seemed to have 3 or 4 children. One introduced me to his family of happy faces. How easily his family income could be interrupted by an accident, illness, competition, or a drop in tourist traffic. The less you have, the greater your reliance on your neighbors, relatives, friends, and finally your faith. When all is said and done, a prayer is gonna be the final line of defense in any desperate situation. That comes clearly into focus as well, traveling through India. Hence, its long history of preoccupation with spirituality and religion.

Delhi and the Tourist Downside

As a tourist, the dirtiness of India wears you down. And at times you also feel overwhelmed by desperate looking faces seeking your help. But there are times when other faces will melt your heart when you occasionally have the opportunity to see their spirits lifted by your actions or with a small gift with the right person.

But as a tourist, the worst problem in India is being told fibs. Lied to. Big, bald faced lies, and always to get money off you. In Delhi, it was the worst, and especially on the first day, I was least prepared.

Delhi International Airport, your introduction to India, sets the tone. The gateway to the land of one billion, it looks, smells and feels like a dingy DMV office or a small town Mexican airport. The cabbies mob you, grab at your luggage and your fare voucher, chat you up with the intention of getting a sense of just how naive and vulnerable you are, and even tag team to put a second Indian, a scam artist in the cab along with you. In the end, it's hard to blame the minor liers, but the worst ones that seem to frequent the tourist spots have remarkably low standards. $2-3 is a day's pay, and they invent countless ways to get that from a tourist and more. Ten times, a hundred times that amount if they can.

Cheats in Delhi make their offices look like Indian Airlines offices, cab companies, government tourist information offices, when in fact they are not. Taxi and rickshaw drivers are on the take. One "travel agent" told me my flight to Nepal was overbooked (142 on the waiting list he said) when it was not. They'll make fake phone calls and act them out perfectly. One suggested that I pay him $100 to insure my spot on my already paid for plane ticket. Cab rides to any destination—hotel, sights—always took detours to hotels or shops where the cabbie stood the chance of getting a commission. Every price had to be negotiated. Everyone offered to book your train, bus, cab, or hotel.

I felt like a big fish swimming down river when I walked the streets, fishermen everywhere who had been waiting all day for you. Every rickshaw driver yelled 'hello' when I walked by. With all the dirt and smog, even at night, it reminded me of 'Blade Runner' where people spoke in a strange language—but they'd switch to a fair version English to accomodate you.

You were a guest in India, it became a challenge to keep your cool. You learned to ignore everyone who comes up to you, because they are used to it. To say 'no' is to open a negotiation.

The Other Places

The train system in India works pretty well. The trips are long, often overnight or all day, but an adventure. I had to take care though and often seek help from honest looking travelers to keep from getting my bags pinched or rumaged through. Every train and platform was packed, and I was often the only tourist in sight, which I enjoyed, feeling I was seeing things 'as they really were'. The bureaucracy of the Indian government was often maddening though. Once I waited in a line of perhaps 20 people for 2 and 1/2 hours to get a train ticket, only to find out the seats were sold out. In the U.S., I would have blown a gasket, but with no schedule pressing on me, I actually laughed.

Nearly everywhere you go, people want to talk to you. How do you like India? What country are you from? Are you married? What type of work do you do? What is your religion? At times I got tired of the same questions, but I never ceased to be amazed at how geniunely nice and friendly people were. Many were frighteningly bright. One fellow in particular: I couldn't find a single subject he didn't have incredible depth of knowledge about. He knew in detail, without a moment's heitation, about a Noble prize in physics I happened to have taken note of. He knew the songwriter for the song about San Francisco and a flower in your hair—"the only one he'd written", as he named the songwriter. He referred to places such as New Jersey, which he'd never been to, to highlight points he was making. He knew about blood chemistry, business, politics, history, architecture, everything about authors and books I could think of, and clearly had a better command of English vocubulary than I. Strangely enough, he had clearly seen better times and asked if I could spare a few rupees, he was out of money!

I flew too, Indian Airlines. I thought it was likely I might not be back to India soon, so I bit the bullet and dropped what seemed like a lot of dough. In India, you can get a decent room for $2-6 per night, and the locals claim to be able to live on less than $5 per day. While salaries in India are low, certain expenses, like rent and food are somewhat proportionately low. Certain prices though, like gas and plane flights, were to an ordinary Indian, brutally expensive. They would talk of the multipler effect—for instance, gas for their car or motorcycle would cost perhaps 25 times what we pay in terms of a percentage of their income!

The distances are great, so I flew to the base of the mountain where I took a train up to Darjeeling, then across to Bombay (Mumbai), and finally to Udiapur in the desert. The rest of the trip was by train and bus—Jaiselmer, Jaipur and Agra.

In Jaiselmer, the camel I was riding decided to roll over in the sand on me, but I escaped unscathed. The Jain temple in that town as well as the sandstone ancient buildings and intricate craftsmanship were some of the most remarkable that I had seen in India. The only thing more remarkable, more critical to my future, was the constant line of military vehicles heading out to the nearby Pakistani border. Add to that the occasional explosions (which I concluded were only practice rounds) from the artillary at the base of the fort walls below the balcony outside my room.

One evening, I, the solo white guy, and a thousand Indian tourists made our way out to some sand dunes 40K away to ride camels and watch the sun set. I'd kinda had enough camel, and was doing my best, getting swamped by families introducing their teenagers to me, tribesmen wanting to unload and exchange spare greenbacks, and a constant stream of smiling 'hellos' expecting and deserving a cheery response. All of a sudden, a blonde bloke with a local Indian accent and tribesman dress rides up promising a ride at 50 rupees ($1), a cut rate.

This was too strange, all I get out of this guy is that, yes, he has some European heritage, but he lives in a village 5K away, teaches in the village school and makes a bit more with camel rides for tourists. His skin is wiped out, clearly not designed to be exposed to the harsh Indian sun, and his teeth are badly stained by the nasty brown whatever-it-is that many Indians chew. At the end of the ride, he pulls a typical maneouver cinching that he is indeed a local, asking for an extra 50 rupees "for his camel". You see, the first 50 rupees was for him, the driver, he also needs money to feed the camel, you understand. I think I gave it to him, I can't remember.

Udiapur was "a gem of a place", as one Mr. Bose put it to me. And indeed it was. A clean little desert city which looked best at night—the whitewashed winding streets and the views out over the lake with the palace in the middle. I listened to my hotel manager's sitar teacher play a few ragas accompanied by the manager's son on tablas. One raga was a morning raga, and if you imagined it wafting over the city or a field as the sun rose over the horizon, the fit of the music and the old world lifestyle (pre-electricity) seemed perfect. Listening to the son warmup hours before, jamming on his tablas, was just as much of a treat.

Agra and Jaipur are major tourist destinations because of their proximity to Delhi. Agra has the Taj Mahal, which in spite of the incredible smog on the days I was there, was somewhat magical and overwhelming. It's setting, against the river and silhouetted nicely when viewed from the ancient city palace/fort nearby, was a couple of the unexpected treats about "the Taj". Being a "Wonder of the World", has a lot to live up, and these labels are in the end, a problem for me. I half expected it to levitate, turn colors at sunset like Ayers Rock, or some other miracle. It's massive, and is a timeless, sublime masterpiece of design and effort. But up close, it ain't perfect—marble does erode/corrode over time, and the smoggy, acidic air is adding to aging process.

My Parting Scare

Standing on a platform awaiting by last train ride, to Jaipur, I put the last cracker from its foil wrapped package into my mouth. Just before swallowing, I noticed what seemed like a cherry stem in my mouth. I hesitated, decided finally not to swallow but try to weed out the foreign piece from my mealy mouth.

It turned out to a straight metal pin. Like a miniature finishing nail, with a good and sharp end too. At first I laughed. Then I thought. Then I became mad. Then I became a bit afraid.

What would that have done to my insides? Hospital time in India? Were there more pins hidden in crackers which I'd already swallowed? How did it get there? What if that shoe shine kid had taken that last cracker which I had offered him to try to get him to buzz off? Wouldn't he think I planted it there purposely, a mad, sick fuck foreigner? That package was FOIL WRAPPED, what the ##$%@^# was going on?

I had become adapted to India, wanted to come back, hadn't gotten anything much more than a cold in 3 weeks. Now I wasn't so sure India was ever worth the gamble. That pin slowly worked on my mind, a sign that there are things that you don't, can't see in India which can harm you in ways you haven't even thought of. And part of that was true. India is unsanitary and crowded, a bad combination. But the main message I was experiencing with fear, just fear. Like watching "Aliens" and contemplating the POSSIBILITY of the horror of something strange like that alien that bursts from your stomach, the fear probably being far worse than the reality.

I think I will go back to India someday, to see the South, the beaches, an ashram perhaps, to Vernasi, Simla, the mountains of Kashmir, Jaiselmer again. If I'm lucky. And some fear may go with me, until I forget about that spiked cracker. India has dangers of its own brand. But there's a laundry list of places I missed, haven't been to, in spite of a year, what comes first?—China, Russia, Alaska, Western Canada, Central America, Argentina, Anarctica (supposedly the best, believe it), Chile, Brazil, Sweden, Vietnam, Burma, Czech Rep., Isreal, Eqypt, Morrocco, most all of Africa—you get the idea.

But now my year is over, and I'm home, getting over the shock of adjusting to a life which includes a lot more time in cars, making lists, and orders of magnitude of more things to do, see, learn about, and ignore. I'm compensating by enjoying the sense of belonging to a culture that is "state of the art" in cleanly, hygenic, protected modern living. But I can't forget that it's all relative, rich or poor, poverty and pain is always a negative though, and I shouldn't forget that there's always more that needs doing, both in your own backyard and abroad, to make things better.

For the last few weeks I've had a recurrent memory of an Indian fellow who sat across from me on one train ride. His hair had gone grey, his face was weathered, and he wore just a pair of simple cotton pants, sandals and a cloth draped around his shoulders. He hadn't a spare ounce of fat on his body. Without any embarrasment and without batting of an eye, he stared directly at me, studying me in detail, all the while displaying a smile and expression of deep, genuine goodwill, gratitude. Others, had stared before perhaps, but with less intensity, and always attired in clothes more like my own.

Finally, I ventured to return this fellow's gaze, and found with deep disappointment and concern that, in the glare of the simple goodness that he was projecting, I could not hold his gaze. And I knew that this pointed to a flaw somewhere, something for me to ponder.

The big meaning in life? Didn't find it. The best I can say, just what I feel right now: do the best to make the widest possible number of people enjoy their lives, including yourself. Seems like a decent definition of a good person. And a place to come back to check up on yourself. And watch out for the misery you might cause, a little of that can destroy a lot of good work. And listen to your own inner voice for guidance, that is, if you have confidence in your own sense of right and wrong. And how do you do it, what actions to take? Well that's a whole 'nother question. That's where the great debate will always lie.
 

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