Oh, and the sore throat turned out to be tonsillitis. They said my tonsils looked like pizzas and then they put me on antibiotics. Glad we cleared that one up.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Chapter 44: Elephants and Infernos
Our day’s touristry in Jaipur. Man it is hard to write on an Indian train. Anyway. We started with breakfast, which isn’t really worth mentioning, but look, there I’ve gone and mentioned it anyway. We then met our tour guide, who had been recommended to us, and then we were off. The man explained interesting historical tidbits about Jaipur as we drove along, almost all of which has slipped my mind, naturally, but of course you don’t want to read about those things anyway because those are the sorts of things that you find in a crusty book in a library and not in the weblog of an easily amused youth, which tends to involve more things like cobras. Yes, you guessed it, there was a cobra waiting for us when we stopped along the side of the road to take the quintessential touristy shot of the Amber Fort along the ridgetop. That’s right, a cobra in a basket, a snakecharmer, and a baby elephant.
The baby elephant I liked—elephant hair is hilarious. The snake charmer was kinda like what, oh come on. Nobody actually does that. But I guess they do, and that cobra looked like it would sooner write a Shakespeare sonnet than lash out lethally at a passing tourist or small furry rodent.
We then took an elephant ride up the maharaja’s private driveway to the fort, a ride which I’m sorry to say I severely disliked. Aside from the basic moral implications of elephant slavery, it was pure torture just trying to stay on the thing as it careened up the hill at about twice the speed of any of the other fifty or so elephants making the climb. A maniac, our elephant was. I think I dislocated my hip hanging on for dear life.
We then went and saw the fort which was pretty neat and historically fertile but unfortunately very hot. I officially hate Jaipur for the weather alone, regardless of how interesting anything in it might be.
After the fort we took a stop by a textile croblyn. I have absolutely no idea what a croblyn is, but that’s what I seem to have written in my book, so until I work on my legibility skills, I’m just gonna go with it. Now that I liked. First we watched them block printing big sheets and tablecloths and the like. It was pretty cool to watch the big bedspreads that I’ve always had being printed right there, all by hand with carved wooden blocks, little old guys lining up the designs by eye and hammering them onto the cloth. We got to try our hands at it ourselves, adorning a little square of cloth with a green elephant labeled “
We then went around the corner to the rug looms where these three little guys were furiously knotting away. We were invited to sit down with them on their little benches and give it a go, which I personally thought was way cool. I was assisted by a little old man with the most cheerful toothless smile in the world. I then went over to watch various people stretching the rugs to dry, hemming up the edges, combing them, trimming them, burning and scraping them, and washing them with big wooden paddles. The actual rug making process of course goes in an entirely different order than that, but that’s the order I saw them in and anyway, I don’t know what the correct one is. Then we met the owner, got marketed to for a while, and ultimately left having purchased much more than intended as per
Titbit fact: Jaipur holds the Guinness world records both for the finest rugs and for the largest sundial, which is where we proceeded to go after we were done at the croblyn. The old observatory, more accurately, which happens to include the world largest sundial. The observatory was built over two hundred years ago by one of the maharajas and is, quite frankly, amazing. All the instruments are hand-carved perfectly out of marble, still accurate up to two seconds. Oh come on, don’t try and tell me that’s not way cool. A different instrument for every sign of the zodiac, instruments for tracking the constellations, the seasons, the moon, and of course, the really freaking huge sundial which was so tall that my right leg gave out when I got back down from climbing to the top of it. No really, it was a pretty bizarre sensation.
We saw the textile and craft museums (ho hum) and then went to a gem shop (you can’t go to Jaipur and not look at gems) where I discovered that blue topaz is gorgeous beyond all measure.
I guess I don’t really have much more to say about the day. It was fascinating, it was hideously, monstrously, heinously, grotesquely, obscenely, punishably hot (and it’s only March, mind you), and now I’m on a train back to Delhi. My trip is almost over, and I’m ready for it. Two (well, three) more days and then
Chapter 43: Way Out of Order
In other news, my mother’s camera is still missing, despite many searches through the car where we know it was left. Also, one morning that I forgot to write about back in the day in Anandpur Sahib we did sadhana at the “Pink Fort” and there was the funniest cutest puppy I’ve ever seen, like a penguin, except a puppy. The moment I saw it I just had to point and laugh. You’ll have to see the pictures to understand.
Chapter 42: Me a Salad?
I’m sitting on a private terrace at the Neemrana Fort-Palace (fancy sounding, eh?) overlooking an amphitheater filled with a movie crew shooting one of them dance scenes Bollywood is known for except that this is actually some music video and not a Bollywood movie. I’ve heard the opening few lines to this song at least a million and a half times since this morning. This is a hell of a lot of work for one cheesy dance scene.
I just got done with a spa treatment where they gave me a facial, which was nice, a full body massage, which was awkward, and the warm oil dripping on the forehead thing, which smelled like salad dressing. The funny thing is that even as I was in the middle of my treatment I was thinking to myself, “Later I’m going to write about this, I’m going to misquote myself, and I’m going to firmly set the record wrong in my own head once I put it all down into words.” And now I’ve gone and done it. Funny how that works. The simplification of thought into language reforms the thought to fit that language. I can read a book and be unable to decide whether I liked it or not, and then it’s ultimately the words I choose when telling other people about it that make the choice about how I feel about it in the end. Ok, not relevant, I know.
Now I suppose it’s time for me to complain about the sorrows of writing by hand. On second thought, maybe I’ll just go paint a picture instead.
Chapter 41: Diseased
Ok, the time has finally come to get off my butt and write this all down. Only problem is I can no longer remember where I left off or what exactly happened anyway. So I will now proceed to set it all down to the best of my ability, but I cannot guarantee that it will be in civilized chronological order. In fact, I am almost willing to promise that it won’t be. Whatever I write will almost certainly be taking the most convoluted and thickly wooded route possible to reach its point. And with that disclaimer having now been set straight, I begin.
Actually, the lights just went out and I am severely averse to the idea of moving into a more well-lighted area from this appallingly comfortable bed, so I’m actually just killing time instead of beginning and waiting for the light to find me. Alright, we compromised, I now have a reading light, and I can begin.
Sheesh, I just checked back to see where I left off, and it’s been so long that I don’t even feel like writing it anymore. Ah, sigh. Grit teeth. Here goes.
So my camera (which had gone missing) just turned out to have been locked away by the maid for safekeeping. A nice relief, though all my cash is gone. Not exactly sure where along the road that happened, but I’m almost too tired to care, so I just try to avoid thinking about how many teapots I burned my fingers on in order to pay for some random Indian to win themself a guilty conscience. Luckily this is not too difficult as I’m generally too tired to do much thinking at all, and in fact that’s actually the first time that the thought even occurred to me. If you’re not getting the hint, I’ve been feeling unwell and horrifically tired ALL the time. I’ve had a headache for the past two days and a sort throat for the past three. But, as promised, that’s all totally out of order, so let’s go back in time a bit to the last time I was feeling like this, back in Anandpur Sahib. Ugh, just thinking about it makes me want to puke all over again—just like I did a couple days ago for the first time since third grade, but again I digress. We’re trying to get to the part where we clambered aboard a sickening bus, drove to the spot where Guru Gobind Singh wrote Benti Chaupaee, and recited eleven of them there. I honestly had a bit of a hard time experiencing the power of it that everyone later described, for a few reasons.
- I was still too tired sick to have much of an easy time focusing on the task at hand.
- I was distracted by monkeys.
We don’t often get monkeys back in good ol’
Then at some point the sickness miraculously disappeared and was replaced by energy and a burning desire to do gatka, so my mother and sister and I set ourselves to the task of building an obstacle course with gusto. Then we had a fabulously muddy training day in the rain (makes it feel authentic) and I did nothing but my left hand the whole time because my mom is very good at breeding a sturdy little army of right-hand addicts—dominant-hand addicts, I should say—a phenomenon which I am stalwartly trying to thwart and am obviously still bitter about.
One morning we had the first ever all-women Amrit ceremony in history. Now I know that’s the sort of thing you’re supposed to lead up to, but I really don’t have the energy just now. I was on the panj, which was quite interesting, having myself only taken Amrit less than a year ago. It was really nice, though. A great ceremony, and for me it felt like taking Amrit all over again.
Then we came back to
Oh yeah, that’s what happened. Went to Parents’ Day at MPA and ate a food which I cannot write down because looking at it on the page will make me want to barf again, which is exactly what I did with it the next morning upon arriving back at the school, and all over the flowerbeds too. Ok, too much information, I know. This is the censored version, be glad. What’s actually written in my little black book is quite graphic. Anyway. I then watched a bunch of cool performances while feeling horrible, then I felt awful, then I continued to feel dreadful, then I took some antibiotics, and by the evening I was feeling fine, fine meaning that I could reasonably stand up without fear of imminent vomit, fine also meaning I was unable to accompany the crew to pizza hut.
After all that I thought I was finally better, but obviously I wasn’t because here I am moaning, not feeling terribly bad, but just not feeling in any way good and feeling like everything is an enormous effort. Raising my eyes to look at the air conditioner is an effort. Remembering the sentence I was originally planning to put here is an effort, and one that I’m not willing to make, though I know there was a better one than this in mind. I’m only able to continue writing this because now it’s the momentum I’m going with, and to stop would be an effort. Plus, I figure its taken me so long to get myself here to these blank pages that I better have something to show for it.
Well I think I’ve showed it. Anything else that’s worth mentioning will probably be brought up when the cross-references refer back anyway, and if I don’t end up with any cross-references to refer back, then I figure it wasn’t worth mentioning. That’s my feeling on
Chapter 39: Axes and Rickshaws
A guy just drove past—well, two actually, together on a scooter. The one behind just happens to be holding a rather evil looking axe right against his buddy’s shoulder. What with the
Chapter 38: Guh...
Wednesday, May 2, 2007
Chapter 37: So… Sleepy…
I know this isn’t a word you would usually use in conjunction with sadhana, but this morning was obscene. I was so tired I could cry. It seems like all I ever do in my free time is sleep because I’m always so tired.
We started this morning (the second morning, the one that comes after sadhana) with sword shopping (if I’d known I’d need a sword for this camp I would have bought a nice one earlier, but whatever). My sword is filled with some strange black powder that falls all over everything whenever I move the hilt. It’s very strange. After the swords, we packed off quickly to Keshghar Sahib for the starting of the two akhand paths—one for this yatra and one on behalf of Khalsa Council. One of the readers was an old man with the most intense vibrato in his voice ever. It was awesome.
Later in the day we went to see Taraghar Sahib, the fort where Guru Gobind Singh’s soldiers meditated. It was really nice. We had langar with fantastic pakoras (again a view I would no longer hold in a week’s time), we chanted in one of the unfinished rooms, we did some kirtan, we climbed around. You know. That sort of thing.
After the fort we got in the bus (yet again) and drove five minutes to where five hundred of the Guru’s soldiers had lived and defended against the hill Rajas. It was so nice. It felt so familiar, like I already knew my way around. I touched the tree at the top of the hill and it just felt like touching it all over again.
And then we came back and I of course slept for eternity. When I woke up it was time for our official camp opening circle, which was honestly lame. I mean we had fun, but as a check in circle it was worth a pile of fermented beans. (We were split up into groups, my group being the “youth” group if that gives you any ideas). We finished the evening with a brownie session in the kitchen. Mmmmm. Brownies.
We started this morning (the second morning, the one that comes after sadhana) with sword shopping (if I’d known I’d need a sword for this camp I would have bought a nice one earlier, but whatever). My sword is filled with some strange black powder that falls all over everything whenever I move the hilt. It’s very strange. After the swords, we packed off quickly to Keshghar Sahib for the starting of the two akhand paths—one for this yatra and one on behalf of Khalsa Council. One of the readers was an old man with the most intense vibrato in his voice ever. It was awesome.
Later in the day we went to see Taraghar Sahib, the fort where Guru Gobind Singh’s soldiers meditated. It was really nice. We had langar with fantastic pakoras (again a view I would no longer hold in a week’s time), we chanted in one of the unfinished rooms, we did some kirtan, we climbed around. You know. That sort of thing.
After the fort we got in the bus (yet again) and drove five minutes to where five hundred of the Guru’s soldiers had lived and defended against the hill Rajas. It was so nice. It felt so familiar, like I already knew my way around. I touched the tree at the top of the hill and it just felt like touching it all over again.
And then we came back and I of course slept for eternity. When I woke up it was time for our official camp opening circle, which was honestly lame. I mean we had fun, but as a check in circle it was worth a pile of fermented beans. (We were split up into groups, my group being the “youth” group if that gives you any ideas). We finished the evening with a brownie session in the kitchen. Mmmmm. Brownies.
Chapter 36: Intrigue and Pakoras on the High Road
Last night, as I mentioned, we finally broke into the torrone. It was… *starts drooling and forgets to talk*. I also showed off my mask to Saibi, tried to ask someone a straight-faced question while wearing it (supreme failure, I really must work on my poker face), and ultimately went to sleep in a squished bed (at least I didn’t have middle), all the while setting the alarm progressively later as the dark hours marched steadily forward without us. My mom finally suggested I turn it off altogether, but I was having none of that. I would not go any later than 4:30.
When 4:30 rolled around, of course, I was pretty darn reluctant, though still had some feeble sense of determination. My mom got up and out of bed, and I was about to follow her glorious example, when she promptly clicked on the TV to the Golden Temple channel and crawled straight back in. Somehow my early morning logic managed to consider this more than ample justification for a couple more hits of the snooze button, one of which must have inadvertently been the off button, as it was suddenly 6:30 and I was the last one left in the room.
I dragged myself out of bed and into my clothes, already feeling slightly guilty about my acrobatic mental politics of the amrit vela, and then practically ran down the stairs and across the street to the Golden Temple. I was frantic because at this point I basically had time to run in and bow, rush back to the hotel, finish stuffing everything into my suitcase, engage in the battle to close my suitcase, haul it all downstairs to load up my bag on the bus, and then maybe possibly grab a parantha on the way out, though I had a suspicion that breakfast this morning might not extend past prashad, a tradeoff I was happy to make.
In this hurried sort of panic mode I turned in my shoes and rushed across the marble steps to the parkarma, passing BK along the way (which just made me more nervous as it confirmed my fears that by this time I should be leaving not entering). Then I stepped onto the parkarma, touched my forehead to the marble, and it all just melted away. I felt suddenly so peaceful and relaxed.
It was a little funny because as nice as the Golden Temple is, I’ve always felt somewhat cheated of the homecoming experiences that everyone describes having. I never really got that. But here on this one hurried morning, it ironically managed to find me. I suppose that’s how it goes.
I made my way around the parkarma and suddenly saw myself behind a group of four nihangs, absolutely decked out to the brim in their weaponry. Just massive spears, swords, weapons I don’t even know the name of. It made a beautiful picture, the pink sunlight foggily illuminating these four blue warrior saints, the long shafts of their weapons bristling uncontrollably in all directions. I watched as each tapped a weapon on one of the orange-robed flagpoles before making their way out of the complex. I headed across the bridge towards the Guru.
The sunrise was so peaceful as it glowed warmly through the fog and haze, birds flying in lilting arcs over the water. Once inside, the bowing was as jostly as ever, maybe more so if that was possible. I bowed my head, battled my way outside, and made my way up to the roof gurdwara. I sat briefly, then went out and stood on the center point of the Golden Temple where an inlaid flower marks the crown.
It was incredible. I felt like a balancing weight, a plumb line was pulling from my feet all the way down through the earth, out the other end, off through the infinity of space, lining it all up in perfect symmetry, like a morning eurhythmy exercise that actually works. It was one of those feelings that makes your face automatically break into a smile, regardless of how silly you feel. Then I stepped off the point and immediately felt like I was on earth again. Neat. At that point I headed back to the hotel where I was informed that I had been spotted on the TV. Well ain’t that dandy.
Chaotically we all clambered aboard the bus and cars and headed out of there, soon on the road to Salindran’s village. Turns out the driver, despite all his insistences to the contrary, had no idea where we were going, so we got completely lost and ended up spending a very unnecessarily long time in that bus, a thing to be avoided at all costs, let me tell you. If you happen to be in an aisle seat (as I was) you spend most of the ride concentrating really hard on staying in your seat. The whole thing is slanted inwards. The seats are made of very smooth wood and are exactly the size of a person’s bottom, so there’s not a lot of sliding room as you’re floundering, desperately trying to stay seated as you’re careening along the viciously battered roads of rural Punjab. The view is also enough to cause claustrophobia in the most stalwart of persons. One poorly angled and significantly blocked view of green streaks of Indian countryside is attainable through your seatmate’s window. Otherwise it’s just seats, heads, bags, the person across the aisle, the two of you leaning ever dangerously closer to one another as your respective seats slowly eject you further and further.
The village was cool. We started in the langar hall with a “snack” of absolutely awesome pakoras (I was not to be thinking this the same time next week). We then went over to the gurdwara where the entire village had turned out to see us. I stepped out of the blinding sunlight into the shadow of the gurdwara’s entrance and blinked as the images materialized themselves. On the left were the ladies who had gone in before me. In front was, of course, the Guru. It was the right side that had the view.
All the village women from the newest little girls to the oldest wrinkled crones were assembled there in possibly the most dazzling sea of hues I’ve ever laid eyes on. The brightest possible colors of every shade packed into every inch of the gurdwara with hundreds of shining faces looking back. It was gorgeous. We talked a little about ourselves, played a little kirtan, and finished up the gurdwara (because we were so late we had to keep it short). BK got a huge fly in her prashad (it was her birthday), cause for much merriment both among the small Punjabi children and my mother, who was unable to continue leading the chanting as she was virtually crippled by an excess of mirth.
Then of course it was lunch time. We had to scarf down our food in record time and leap back onto the bus (did I mention we were late?). Upon arriving back at the vehicle, however, it because apparent that Nirinjan’s cell phone had gone missing. After searching every possible corner of the bus, we began to piece some clues together. Well first, the cell phone was missing. On a second check through, Nirinjan was pretty sure she’d had another 500 rupee bill in her wallet. We also soon uncovered that Nirinjan’s bag had actually been discovered in a different location than the one she’d originally left it in. In the process of searching the floor for the missing cell phone, well also came across a discarded swatch of fabric lying on the floor. Nirinjan identified it as the one she had stuffed into her bag just before leaving the bus. In short, someone had definitely gone through her stuff. Discussing it fervently along the way, our complex powers of deduction led us to suspect the driver.
We stopped at Haveli’s for dinner (best lassi ever, I tell you). And then it happened. Someone actually caught the drivers red-handed, looking through people’s luggage. They stopped immediately when they saw her, but that was enough for us. Nirinjan was furious at this point, but the powers that be (namely the camp staff) wanted to wait until Anandpur Sahib to deal with the situation. When we finally did arrive in Anandpur Sahib our first stop was Keshghar Sahib, the main gurdwara, where we were going to temporarily install the Guru and have an akhand path read.
As we were waiting for the Guru to arrive, a scooter zoomed by with a guy wielding a thick metal tube, out of which was streaming a viscous white cloud. The cloud rose up into the air, billowing towards us, bearing down upon us, expanding exponentially it seemed, without losing any density. It was a terrifying, spellbinding sight to behold. DDT for the mosquitoes, someone mumbled apprehensively. But to see this cloud racing towards you, opaque with viscosity, looking like that one famous picture of the jeep outrunning the cloud from Mount Saint Helens but white instead of grey, man it was intense! I desperately felt like I was supposed to hide from this cloud, but I could not! Oh, the terror! And then it was over.
So then we finally brought the Guru in, bowed, got back on the bus, and finally made it to the Siri Singh Sahib’s house, Dashmesh Sadan, a.k.a. home. Where they fed us yet again. Before dinner my mom and I were coming down the stairs to my room and we could hear some pretty intense Punjabi yelling coming up from the driveway. Whatever it was about, they were arguing HARD, screaming at each other at the tops of their lungs. As we were sitting at the table eating about ten minutes later, one of the guys came up and handed over Nirinjan’s phone and 500 rupees. So there we had it. Turns out it was indeed the driver’s sidekick, who was immediately fired from the job and kicked off the premises.
So now it’s 12:40 and I’m on wakeup duty at 3:15. I just keep getting better at this, don’t I?
When 4:30 rolled around, of course, I was pretty darn reluctant, though still had some feeble sense of determination. My mom got up and out of bed, and I was about to follow her glorious example, when she promptly clicked on the TV to the Golden Temple channel and crawled straight back in. Somehow my early morning logic managed to consider this more than ample justification for a couple more hits of the snooze button, one of which must have inadvertently been the off button, as it was suddenly 6:30 and I was the last one left in the room.
I dragged myself out of bed and into my clothes, already feeling slightly guilty about my acrobatic mental politics of the amrit vela, and then practically ran down the stairs and across the street to the Golden Temple. I was frantic because at this point I basically had time to run in and bow, rush back to the hotel, finish stuffing everything into my suitcase, engage in the battle to close my suitcase, haul it all downstairs to load up my bag on the bus, and then maybe possibly grab a parantha on the way out, though I had a suspicion that breakfast this morning might not extend past prashad, a tradeoff I was happy to make.
In this hurried sort of panic mode I turned in my shoes and rushed across the marble steps to the parkarma, passing BK along the way (which just made me more nervous as it confirmed my fears that by this time I should be leaving not entering). Then I stepped onto the parkarma, touched my forehead to the marble, and it all just melted away. I felt suddenly so peaceful and relaxed.
It was a little funny because as nice as the Golden Temple is, I’ve always felt somewhat cheated of the homecoming experiences that everyone describes having. I never really got that. But here on this one hurried morning, it ironically managed to find me. I suppose that’s how it goes.
I made my way around the parkarma and suddenly saw myself behind a group of four nihangs, absolutely decked out to the brim in their weaponry. Just massive spears, swords, weapons I don’t even know the name of. It made a beautiful picture, the pink sunlight foggily illuminating these four blue warrior saints, the long shafts of their weapons bristling uncontrollably in all directions. I watched as each tapped a weapon on one of the orange-robed flagpoles before making their way out of the complex. I headed across the bridge towards the Guru.
The sunrise was so peaceful as it glowed warmly through the fog and haze, birds flying in lilting arcs over the water. Once inside, the bowing was as jostly as ever, maybe more so if that was possible. I bowed my head, battled my way outside, and made my way up to the roof gurdwara. I sat briefly, then went out and stood on the center point of the Golden Temple where an inlaid flower marks the crown.
It was incredible. I felt like a balancing weight, a plumb line was pulling from my feet all the way down through the earth, out the other end, off through the infinity of space, lining it all up in perfect symmetry, like a morning eurhythmy exercise that actually works. It was one of those feelings that makes your face automatically break into a smile, regardless of how silly you feel. Then I stepped off the point and immediately felt like I was on earth again. Neat. At that point I headed back to the hotel where I was informed that I had been spotted on the TV. Well ain’t that dandy.
Chaotically we all clambered aboard the bus and cars and headed out of there, soon on the road to Salindran’s village. Turns out the driver, despite all his insistences to the contrary, had no idea where we were going, so we got completely lost and ended up spending a very unnecessarily long time in that bus, a thing to be avoided at all costs, let me tell you. If you happen to be in an aisle seat (as I was) you spend most of the ride concentrating really hard on staying in your seat. The whole thing is slanted inwards. The seats are made of very smooth wood and are exactly the size of a person’s bottom, so there’s not a lot of sliding room as you’re floundering, desperately trying to stay seated as you’re careening along the viciously battered roads of rural Punjab. The view is also enough to cause claustrophobia in the most stalwart of persons. One poorly angled and significantly blocked view of green streaks of Indian countryside is attainable through your seatmate’s window. Otherwise it’s just seats, heads, bags, the person across the aisle, the two of you leaning ever dangerously closer to one another as your respective seats slowly eject you further and further.
The village was cool. We started in the langar hall with a “snack” of absolutely awesome pakoras (I was not to be thinking this the same time next week). We then went over to the gurdwara where the entire village had turned out to see us. I stepped out of the blinding sunlight into the shadow of the gurdwara’s entrance and blinked as the images materialized themselves. On the left were the ladies who had gone in before me. In front was, of course, the Guru. It was the right side that had the view.
All the village women from the newest little girls to the oldest wrinkled crones were assembled there in possibly the most dazzling sea of hues I’ve ever laid eyes on. The brightest possible colors of every shade packed into every inch of the gurdwara with hundreds of shining faces looking back. It was gorgeous. We talked a little about ourselves, played a little kirtan, and finished up the gurdwara (because we were so late we had to keep it short). BK got a huge fly in her prashad (it was her birthday), cause for much merriment both among the small Punjabi children and my mother, who was unable to continue leading the chanting as she was virtually crippled by an excess of mirth.
Then of course it was lunch time. We had to scarf down our food in record time and leap back onto the bus (did I mention we were late?). Upon arriving back at the vehicle, however, it because apparent that Nirinjan’s cell phone had gone missing. After searching every possible corner of the bus, we began to piece some clues together. Well first, the cell phone was missing. On a second check through, Nirinjan was pretty sure she’d had another 500 rupee bill in her wallet. We also soon uncovered that Nirinjan’s bag had actually been discovered in a different location than the one she’d originally left it in. In the process of searching the floor for the missing cell phone, well also came across a discarded swatch of fabric lying on the floor. Nirinjan identified it as the one she had stuffed into her bag just before leaving the bus. In short, someone had definitely gone through her stuff. Discussing it fervently along the way, our complex powers of deduction led us to suspect the driver.
We stopped at Haveli’s for dinner (best lassi ever, I tell you). And then it happened. Someone actually caught the drivers red-handed, looking through people’s luggage. They stopped immediately when they saw her, but that was enough for us. Nirinjan was furious at this point, but the powers that be (namely the camp staff) wanted to wait until Anandpur Sahib to deal with the situation. When we finally did arrive in Anandpur Sahib our first stop was Keshghar Sahib, the main gurdwara, where we were going to temporarily install the Guru and have an akhand path read.
As we were waiting for the Guru to arrive, a scooter zoomed by with a guy wielding a thick metal tube, out of which was streaming a viscous white cloud. The cloud rose up into the air, billowing towards us, bearing down upon us, expanding exponentially it seemed, without losing any density. It was a terrifying, spellbinding sight to behold. DDT for the mosquitoes, someone mumbled apprehensively. But to see this cloud racing towards you, opaque with viscosity, looking like that one famous picture of the jeep outrunning the cloud from Mount Saint Helens but white instead of grey, man it was intense! I desperately felt like I was supposed to hide from this cloud, but I could not! Oh, the terror! And then it was over.
So then we finally brought the Guru in, bowed, got back on the bus, and finally made it to the Siri Singh Sahib’s house, Dashmesh Sadan, a.k.a. home. Where they fed us yet again. Before dinner my mom and I were coming down the stairs to my room and we could hear some pretty intense Punjabi yelling coming up from the driveway. Whatever it was about, they were arguing HARD, screaming at each other at the tops of their lungs. As we were sitting at the table eating about ten minutes later, one of the guys came up and handed over Nirinjan’s phone and 500 rupees. So there we had it. Turns out it was indeed the driver’s sidekick, who was immediately fired from the job and kicked off the premises.
So now it’s 12:40 and I’m on wakeup duty at 3:15. I just keep getting better at this, don’t I?
Chapter 35: Swords
A couple India stories to add to the classics:
Well the sheets were covered in snot. Not really a great story, but it was gross anyway.
Here’s a story.
Ok, so Salindran wanted to call Hardeep, the sword guy, and make sure he was still planning to come display his swords and kirpans as they had agreed to, and if so, what time? She dials the number and, I presume, it starts ringing. This is what we hear:
“Hello? Hardeep? Is that you, Hardeep? Are you coming? Yes, this is Salindran Kaur from the CJ hotel. Are you coming to show us your swords? Yes? Hardeep? Are you coming to the CJ tonight...?”
And on. Turns out she’s talking to some totally random guy in Amritsar for a good minute or two before she figures out she has the wrong number. Oh, it was priceless! Ahahaha! Just imagine Salindran asking some random Indian if he’ll come to the CJ Hotel to show her his swords. Man. We will be joking about this for decades to come.
Well the sheets were covered in snot. Not really a great story, but it was gross anyway.
Here’s a story.
Ok, so Salindran wanted to call Hardeep, the sword guy, and make sure he was still planning to come display his swords and kirpans as they had agreed to, and if so, what time? She dials the number and, I presume, it starts ringing. This is what we hear:
“Hello? Hardeep? Is that you, Hardeep? Are you coming? Yes, this is Salindran Kaur from the CJ hotel. Are you coming to show us your swords? Yes? Hardeep? Are you coming to the CJ tonight...?”
And on. Turns out she’s talking to some totally random guy in Amritsar for a good minute or two before she figures out she has the wrong number. Oh, it was priceless! Ahahaha! Just imagine Salindran asking some random Indian if he’ll come to the CJ Hotel to show her his swords. Man. We will be joking about this for decades to come.
Chapter 34: History or Something Like It
Today, as often seems to happen when you put a whole bunch of women together, we set out to make history, or something like it. I hardly think I need to explain that India is a heavily patriarchal society. So you put a bunch of women together in India… well history or something like it can hardly be avoided.
I woke up JUST in time to eat some soggy cornflakes and dash over to the Golden Temple for our little meeting outside the Akal Takhat. We had a circle meeting every morning. The thing that was important this morning was that we had planned a procession around the parkarma. I was supposed to be a photographer (yay cool cameras!).
After our circle dispersed, the chosen crew (plus photographers) made our barefoot way across the Amritsar streets to the little bookshop where we would pick up our new Siri Guru Granth Sahib that one of the ladies had purchased. We all filed into the little back room to work out the logistics of traveling with the Siri Guru Granth Sahib and to make the exchange. As we made our way back out, chanting gobinde mukhande, my job of darting and dodging in my attempts to document the event began.
Our barefooted crew of women made our way back through the streets of Amritsar, chanting, bearing the Guru under a red umbrella chandoa, already drawing gaping stares. We came down the stairs to the parkarma where the rest of the women were waiting to meet us, not to mention a very large crowd of fascinated Indians. The women of course stepped in right behind us. But the Indians did not hesitate either. Their faces were glowing as we approached the parkarma and we had hardly gone a hundred feet before they had dropped in behind us. Every step that we took around the nectar tank people would be stopped in smiling amazement and every step brought more and more to the following crowd until soon there were well over fifty Indians eagerly keeping pace.
By the time we made our second loop around the Golden Temple, the crowd had grown to the size where all you could see of the Guru was the little red umbrella bobbing up and down over the multicolored sea of turbans. By the time we ascended the stairs back up to the street, we had even attracted the attention of one of the TV cameras.
We made our way back to the hotel, the whole sangat following along behind us, all the way into the hotel, all the way up the stairs, where we completely crowded the stairwells, stairways, hallways, and small room as we said the ardas. The bole so nihals (and corresponding sat siri akals) resounded through the building with such force that I think everyone within a half-mile radius must have been inadvertently blessed. At any rate, it seemed loud enough to knock down the “unstable” building that’s been next door for years.
The event came to a close when the entire building simultaneously decided that it was lunch time. Me and Nirinjan (ahem, Nirinjan and I) discovered the fabulous wonder of Kulcha Land, got a couple of suits adjusted (YAY!), and then went to go shopping for Nirinjan’s wedding reception shoes. There was a point at which I believe a specimen of each and every possible gold shoe in the entire store was strewn about at Nirinjan’s ankles as she delicately slipped her foot back and forth between them, trying to decide which would best suit the occasion and her soles.
When we got back to the hotel I was so tired I dropped immediately into a very deep, three hour nap. When, at the end of that time, Nirinjan came in to show me her wedding dress, I was fully convinced she was waking me up for sadhana, and I was rather confused about the manner in which she was going about it. Why she was carrying this dress around at three in the morning and why she seemed so bloody alert were both mystifying questions that took me a good foggy few minutes to work through. I had to ask her both what time it was and what day it was, and when I got the answer I had the distinct feeling of having traveled backwards in time. It was all very exhausting.
Saibi and Ruby showed up, we broke into the absolute wonder that is torrone from Florence, we chatted about this and that and took forever to go to bed, and now here I am at 12:21 (good time, eh?) with a 4:30 alarm set on my phone. Oh well, I had a nap, right?
I woke up JUST in time to eat some soggy cornflakes and dash over to the Golden Temple for our little meeting outside the Akal Takhat. We had a circle meeting every morning. The thing that was important this morning was that we had planned a procession around the parkarma. I was supposed to be a photographer (yay cool cameras!).
After our circle dispersed, the chosen crew (plus photographers) made our barefoot way across the Amritsar streets to the little bookshop where we would pick up our new Siri Guru Granth Sahib that one of the ladies had purchased. We all filed into the little back room to work out the logistics of traveling with the Siri Guru Granth Sahib and to make the exchange. As we made our way back out, chanting gobinde mukhande, my job of darting and dodging in my attempts to document the event began.
Our barefooted crew of women made our way back through the streets of Amritsar, chanting, bearing the Guru under a red umbrella chandoa, already drawing gaping stares. We came down the stairs to the parkarma where the rest of the women were waiting to meet us, not to mention a very large crowd of fascinated Indians. The women of course stepped in right behind us. But the Indians did not hesitate either. Their faces were glowing as we approached the parkarma and we had hardly gone a hundred feet before they had dropped in behind us. Every step that we took around the nectar tank people would be stopped in smiling amazement and every step brought more and more to the following crowd until soon there were well over fifty Indians eagerly keeping pace.
By the time we made our second loop around the Golden Temple, the crowd had grown to the size where all you could see of the Guru was the little red umbrella bobbing up and down over the multicolored sea of turbans. By the time we ascended the stairs back up to the street, we had even attracted the attention of one of the TV cameras.
We made our way back to the hotel, the whole sangat following along behind us, all the way into the hotel, all the way up the stairs, where we completely crowded the stairwells, stairways, hallways, and small room as we said the ardas. The bole so nihals (and corresponding sat siri akals) resounded through the building with such force that I think everyone within a half-mile radius must have been inadvertently blessed. At any rate, it seemed loud enough to knock down the “unstable” building that’s been next door for years.
The event came to a close when the entire building simultaneously decided that it was lunch time. Me and Nirinjan (ahem, Nirinjan and I) discovered the fabulous wonder of Kulcha Land, got a couple of suits adjusted (YAY!), and then went to go shopping for Nirinjan’s wedding reception shoes. There was a point at which I believe a specimen of each and every possible gold shoe in the entire store was strewn about at Nirinjan’s ankles as she delicately slipped her foot back and forth between them, trying to decide which would best suit the occasion and her soles.
When we got back to the hotel I was so tired I dropped immediately into a very deep, three hour nap. When, at the end of that time, Nirinjan came in to show me her wedding dress, I was fully convinced she was waking me up for sadhana, and I was rather confused about the manner in which she was going about it. Why she was carrying this dress around at three in the morning and why she seemed so bloody alert were both mystifying questions that took me a good foggy few minutes to work through. I had to ask her both what time it was and what day it was, and when I got the answer I had the distinct feeling of having traveled backwards in time. It was all very exhausting.
Saibi and Ruby showed up, we broke into the absolute wonder that is torrone from Florence, we chatted about this and that and took forever to go to bed, and now here I am at 12:21 (good time, eh?) with a 4:30 alarm set on my phone. Oh well, I had a nap, right?
Chapter 33: Hello, India
It’s definitely nice to be back in India. The smell, the chaos, the cultural familiarity, the Golden Temple, friends, family, SAIBI!! It was fantastic to see her again, naturally.
It’s also fun to be back with an awesome camera this time. I don’t even have to pay attention. I just sort of lackadaisically click at things out the window as I’m passing by and fantastic pictures just sort of manufacture themselves. It’s great. As are the paranthas, the tiki prgbersg what? That is supposed to be burgers. And the burfi. Mmmm.
Yesterday we took a bunch of school kids out for dinner at a crappy yet apparently popular place (it’s new and American, what can I say?) called Bakes and Beans. What kind of a name is that? Nevermind, you can’t start asking questions like that when you’re in India, it’s much too exhausting. Anyway, in addition to the very odd conjuration of quasi American food, they have about ten different ways to order a chocolate coffee shake, all of which produce the exact same drink. We tested it. Well, ok, I’m being a bit harsh, there are in fact two varieties among those ten options. Plain chocolate and chocolate with so little coffee that it doesn’t really taste much different than the plain chocolate. And I believe that a Chocosparkle is slightly more watery than a basic Icy Mocha, though I personally would be willing to bet on that not being intentional. Well anyway, the point is, that between these homogenous chocolate shakes and my reunion with a bunch of awesome people, it was a very entertaining evening.
I should probably fill you in on the deal here. It’s a fairly simple one. The plan goes thus: I meet my mother in India, we pick up my sister from school in Amritsar, and then we spend a week doing Khalsa Ladies Camp Anandpur 2007. We return to Amritsar, the camp disperses, my father arrives, we spend Saibi’s spring break going somewhere. Where? Well we don’t know yet. Just somewhere. Got it? First half, women’s camp, second half, family vacation. Y’all are doing good. Ok, let’s move ahead.
It’s also fun to be back with an awesome camera this time. I don’t even have to pay attention. I just sort of lackadaisically click at things out the window as I’m passing by and fantastic pictures just sort of manufacture themselves. It’s great. As are the paranthas, the tiki prgbersg what? That is supposed to be burgers. And the burfi. Mmmm.
Yesterday we took a bunch of school kids out for dinner at a crappy yet apparently popular place (it’s new and American, what can I say?) called Bakes and Beans. What kind of a name is that? Nevermind, you can’t start asking questions like that when you’re in India, it’s much too exhausting. Anyway, in addition to the very odd conjuration of quasi American food, they have about ten different ways to order a chocolate coffee shake, all of which produce the exact same drink. We tested it. Well, ok, I’m being a bit harsh, there are in fact two varieties among those ten options. Plain chocolate and chocolate with so little coffee that it doesn’t really taste much different than the plain chocolate. And I believe that a Chocosparkle is slightly more watery than a basic Icy Mocha, though I personally would be willing to bet on that not being intentional. Well anyway, the point is, that between these homogenous chocolate shakes and my reunion with a bunch of awesome people, it was a very entertaining evening.
I should probably fill you in on the deal here. It’s a fairly simple one. The plan goes thus: I meet my mother in India, we pick up my sister from school in Amritsar, and then we spend a week doing Khalsa Ladies Camp Anandpur 2007. We return to Amritsar, the camp disperses, my father arrives, we spend Saibi’s spring break going somewhere. Where? Well we don’t know yet. Just somewhere. Got it? First half, women’s camp, second half, family vacation. Y’all are doing good. Ok, let’s move ahead.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)