Tag Archives: Hindu

All in the Family

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Shaikh and Shamim

The Mukaram family

Rusda, Me, Tayba and Shamim

Yes, do buy a gown for the marriage, it’ll be so much fun! We’ll go shopping together.

Don’t buy a gown, you’ll only want it for one day, yes? I can bring you some to try on and see what you like.

You’ll be needing help with getting ready for the wedding, ma’am?

I can lend you jewelry and shoes if you like, ma’am. No worries.

Since arriving in India we have been “adopted” by numerous people and treated like members of the family. We are often asked, with a look of surprise, why we have not brought our children and their spouses with us. “Next time,” we reply sheepishly. Indians tend to travel in large family groups of eight or more, except when they go on a honeymoon. Grandparents on both sides as well as aunties,cousins and children go on vacation together. Two lone travelers are an unusual sight.

We were thrilled when our friend Shaikh Mukaram invited us to his niece’s marriage and that we would be part of the wedding party. Although we have attended many Hindu weddings, this would be our first Muslim one.

She is very poor, my sister, but there will be over 1500 people at the wedding.

Shaikh’s father has eleven brothers and three sisters and his mother has seven brothers and six sisters. He has one brother and four sisters and his wife has three brothers and three sisters. Ubed, his son, estimated that he has three hundred cousins!

Nilam, one of the teachers at Manav Gulzar Community Center,offered to find a dress for me to borrow.

I have so many sarees but no gowns, I don’t know if you’ll like what I have.

Nilam

After teaching the workshops with the children I am usually exhausted so the thought of going to shop for a dress, no matter how much fun it might be, seemed overwhelming. I said that I was sure anything she had for me would be fine.

You need jewelry too, right?

The next day a big bag with three beautiful gowns and masses of costume jewelry arrived.

How to decide? Ask my friends on Facebook of course and have a vote! With opinions pouring in from India, Cambodia,Italy, France, Germany, England and the USA, the festivities started off with a bang.

The red is more striking

Quello in alto a destra,oro (Italy)

No need to choose,because you always beautiful (Cambodia)

Even pink is gorgeous…but I would suggest U go in Red it has a festive look in my opinion Best for the occasion. (India)

When the tally came in with more than one hundred and fifty votes counted, Red was the surefire winner. I felt like a princess with all the gold and sequins and glitter. Rusda, one of Shaikh’s daughters, agreed to come shopping with me for shoes and go together for the Heena hand painting the day before the wedding.

When Dhairya, one of the front desk managers at my hotel found out that I had no shoes she quickly piped in. “I have some shoes I can lend you. No worries. My Mummy and me have some pairs that we share for weddings. I’ll bring them by and you can see if they fit. “

Things were coming together quickly and it was the Friday before the wedding.

gown-check

earrings and bangles- check

gold sandal heels- check

Now it was time for the Heena.

Name and place where I will meet you tomorrow Rusda?

General hardas ngav nav lakhaa malek shaban ki dargah

Huh? Even with the Google map pinpoint I could tell it was complicated and I’d never find it.

I think maybe I won’t come. I’m afraid of getting lost.

Yaa it’s too far From your hotel.

I had resigned myself to not getting my hands painted and was commiserating with Jagat who runs the Earn and Learn program at Manav Sadhna.

Don’t worry. Nita can do it for you. I just have to send Kasturbhai to the market to get some Heena. Wait here.

I waited for forty five minutes until he returned from the market, as the first market had no more Heena. It is wedding season and there is a big rush for the Heena coloring. It is a tradition for women friends and family members to get their hands painted . Nita is an artist and in twenty minutes she had finished two beautiful traditional designs on both my hands while Jagat sang songs extolling the love between Gerald and I. Don’t ask me why he decided to do this, but he was enjoying himself so much I didn’t ask.

Before

After

Jagat Bhai

Saturday arrived and Dhairya arranged her schedule to free up some time to help me get ready. She insisted on calling me ma’am and although it bothered me at first, like most things in India, I got used to it.

Ma’am you must wear the diamond earrings, more Indian, others too Western. And yes, the diamond jewels draped on your forehead.

I left everything for her to decide and reveled in the pampering-make-up, jewelry, perfumes, the works.Gerald didn’t have anything special to wear, especially on his feet, but he had a Kurta. No chance of borrowing anything his size from anyone here in India.

When I made my grand entrance in the lobby of the hotel, you would think a movie star had arrived. The Indians gave their thumbs up approval and insisted on taking endless selfies with me.

Since we had no idea what a Muslim wedding would be like, but had been told that it was a more restrained affair-without the exuberant music and dancing of the Hindus, we had no expectations.

The evening started off by going to the home of the bride’s mother to watch the last minute make-up preparation. It was in a poor section of town where in 2002 Hindu Nationalist riots were responsible for the burning of many homes in the Muslim quarter. Shaikh’s sister’s home was among those that were destroyed. The Indian government did nothing to quell the riots and did not pay to rebuild. It was the Muslim community that helped her.

A type of canopy had been set up in the small courtyard of the quarter, and many neighbors were milling around as well as young cousins who were already dressed for the wedding. The housing quarters were tiny, barely enough room for three women to dress the bride. We stayed outside near the mosque.

Cousins

We then piled into Shaikhs car, leaving Rusda and her mother to come with the relatives. “It wouldn’t be nice if we didn’t stay with the family and go together with them. We will see you there.”

The earthen courtyard outside the mosque was dimly lit when we arrived, and it certainly did not look like a wedding venue. There was a stage set up with a throne, set against a blue and white striped curtain as back drop. The groom’s family (only about thirty five male members) sat below, looking glum and not talking to one another.We clabbered over the uneven dirt path with me holding my gown by the hem, trying not to trip over my heels while we crossed the courtyard into the bride’s section.

SPLAT! All of a sudden I felt the sole of one shoe detach from the heel. I limped awkwardly while lifting my gown off the ground in the futile hope of keeping it clean.

Shaikh’s brother to the rescue! When hearing of my dilemma he quickly appeared holding a tube of heavy duty glue. It just so happens he owns a clothing and shoe shop and was prepared for such emergencies.

The bride’s section was a dazzling display of kitsch and bling, with women wearing earrings that looked like metal chandeliers , or sculptures that you might see hanging decoratively on a wall.

The bride arrived in a car, veil covering her face,and was immediately escorted by Rusda onto the stage where she remained for the next two hours. We were ushered onstage to sit next to her and have our photos taken, along with other relatives. At one point she started crying and her auntie leaned over and spoke soothing words and gave her a hankie. In India, after marriage the bride goes to live with the husband’s family and does not return to her family. It is a very emotional moment.

The groom arrived and took his place, far away from the bride.

Food was served on large platters to be shared communally- rice, dal and a mutton curry.

There was no Imam (priest). Shaikh’s brother brought the marriage contract onstage first to the bride and then to the groom, still seated in different parts of the courtyard. The “ceremony” was now complete. The couple, officially married,would see each other for the first time only well after midnight at the groom’s house,when a mirror would be placed between them and the veil removed.

The wedding, rather than an elaborate celebration was more a large family reunion. As Westerners it is difficult for us to fully comprehend the complicated role that family plays in Indian society. It encompasses a strong sense of duty, devotion to tradition, and is an enormous source of happiness.

The Last Theyyam in Kannur

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The alarm goes off at three in the morning and I jump up quickly and quietly so I don’t wake up Gerald. He insists it is not early morning but the middle of the night, and has decided to forgo this last Theyyam ceremony before we leave Kannur.

Vineeth, my trusted rickshaw driver and guide is already waiting for me outside. I put my pink cloth carry bag on the seat and off we go.

What’s in my bag? A banana and some biscuits, my camera and telephoto lens, iPhone, and last but certainly not least, a handy water spray bottle which brings down my body temperature quickly when the steamy tropical heat threatens to break my resolve to remain any longer.

The temple I am going to today is only 17km away but it not a paved road so I have no idea how long the journey will take. I ask myself if I should try to sleep on the way and I lie down in a fetal position on the plastic padded bench seat in the rickshaw.That idea is quickly abandoned after the first few bumps.

Forty minutes later we arrive and Golikan, the first deity, is making his appearance. The priest motions for me to wait until the blessings for putting on the mask are finished before I take any photos.I have seen this deity at other temples but this performer is more engaged and active than the others, walking on stilts and leaping around the courtyard wildly.

This temple is an older one dedicated to Shiva, and there are small shrines with offerings of rice and coconut.

Quite a crowd has gathered by now and there is an informal men’s and women’s section for seating.

Beautiful traditional Keralan white silk saris banded with gold are worn by the older women, who have brass oil lamps which will be lit and blessed by the spectacular fire dancer deity who will be performing later.

After the first three Theyyam have finished their performance there is a break. Seated on small thrones in the courtyard the Theyyam bless the villagers as they line up. Meanwhile, a loud speaker is advertising services by companies who have sponsored this ceremony. and like all things in India, is at high volume.

An aura of anticipation and excitement is in the air as we await the entrance of Agni Kandakarnan, the son of Shiva.

I am seated directly in front of the temple so that I have a prime view of the entrance of each deity. Agni Kandakarnan arrives and the temple attendants place the eight poles, each with a torch at either end, around his young coconut leaf skirt. When they are lit there is an audible hush and then a gasp.

Each time Theyyam is performed, even if it is the same character, there is a sense of unpredictability. On this particular occasion it is both terrifying and playful. As the fiery Theyyam spins around, spreading balls of flames on the ground he is yelling angrily, running through the stands, stopping now and then to bless a man, woman or child. Then just as suddenly he leaps up to where a gaggle of young men are seated and grabs someone’s cell phone.

He runs around gleefully and mischievously displaying his prize, until he finally gives it to one of the drummers. The owner of the phone runs hurriedly to retrieve it.

By now the sun is rising and Vineeth has to bring his daughter to school and signals to me that it’s time to leave.

I arrive back at the guesthouse exhausted, exhilarated and unable to speak.

I will be forever grateful to my dear husband Gerald, who introduced me to India sixteen years ago. I could have never imagined what a profound impact it would make in my life.

Behind the Curtain/India Exposed

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You won’t be able to take photos or watch the make up preparation, but to see the Theyyam Bagavathi Muttilotu is an experience not to be missed. She is one of the most powerful goddesses and the performer cannot eat meat, drink alcohol or have sex for forty one days beforehand. She stays behind a curtain and doesn’t come out until ready to receive the headdress. For some people it is scary because she can be unpredictable and start yelling and gesturing aggressively.

Kurian, my Theyyam authority, and owner of Costa Malabari Guest House in Kannur, explained this to me in an earnest tone. I have been coming here ever since I was first exposed to Theyyam in 2014.

Theyyam is an ancient ritual practiced in the Malabar region of southern India and is performed exclusively by men who manifest the deities and goddesses while in a trance-like state. The ritual started out as a practice of the lower castes and later became absorbed into Hindu culture as a way of communicating directly with deities.

Malabar village shrines are dedicated to a particular deity and an annual ritual or festival is sponsored either by a family or the priests, and is open to the greater community at large.Theyyam season is between November and May. The more powerful Theyyam deities can attract thousands of worshippers to the ceremonies.

At nine in the morning we started out for the first village. It was later than usual because the ceremonies, which usually start at sunrise, had been going on all night. Plastic tarps were set up as booths , carnival style, to sell the various trinkets- plastic toys, balloons,bangles and other assorted useful objects which the attendees would inevitably buy. Bollywood music, interspersed with adverts for travel agencies, hair growth clinics and “fancy dress” shops, bellowed out of two loudspeakers positioned just outside the kavu ( sacred area around the shrine). It was early and we were among the first to arrive. I always like to have time for the villagers to become comfortable with our presence.

My flip flops, already muddied with the moist red dirt, and traces of the many people who had trampled over them, were placed outside the entrance to the shrine, and I hoped I would be able to find them again after the crowds stormed through. I attempted (vainly) to sparkle as much as the Rajasthani women and wore my best gold dangly earrings, bangles and mangal sutra ( Rajasthani marriage necklace).

Gerald and Richard had set their backpacks on the red plastic chairs in the front row to save the best seats. It wasn’t until later, when an old lady snarled at him did he realize they were in the women’s section, and had to move.

I immediately rushed over to the costume/make up preparation area. Each one of the eight deities that would be represented has a unique costume and intricate face painting design which can take hours to complete. After four hours in the tropical heat,watching the six drummers feverishly lead the deities into trance, and the mesmerizing dancing of the Theyyam, I was exhausted. We had seen four deities and there were four more getting ready. As the sun baked into my skin, even with the sensory overload of these rituals I knew that I absolutely had to go to the next village where Bhagavati would be the grand finale.

As we arrived at the next shrine- a much bigger venue with hundreds of people already milling about in the temple grounds, the anticipation was palpable. As in the other village we were the only non-Indians and were given a place of honor so that we could to see better.

An old man with bloodshot eyes- probably from too much toddy-approached me.

Bagavathi is a powerful goddess, coming soon. She will make you cry, I do.

I was anxious for the finale after waiting almost two hours .We had rushed to get there by 2 pm and my eyes were glued to the curtain covering the place where Bagavathi was preparing, waiting to see some movement that would indicate an appearance. The only food I had eaten was a packaged ice cream bought from a vendor. Although we were invited to share the feast that was prepared for the masses at each shrine, I had politely refrained from eating and drinking, knowing that the toilet facilities would be suspect. But there was no way that I would even think of leaving before seeing what I had come for.

A bonfire had been smoldering for hours. Suddenly the temple priests and attendants started running over the hot coals and encircling the shrine. A swell of women and men charged across the temple grounds to the corner where Bagavathi was ready to receive her headdress. I didn’t know whether I should join them or stay put in my prime viewing position. The women next to me kept on squeezing me in in order to make room for a badly misshapen young man, lying on a mat behind me. They pointed to a woman standing nearby who I assumed was his mother, and she motioned that she wanted him to be blessed when Bagavahti passed by. I knew if I left there would be no returning.

Fearful that if I stayed I might miss the action, I ran over, just in time to see Bagavathi, in brilliant red headdress and huge skirt,flaming torches in both hands. Worshippers were pushing and shoving to get close enough to pass their arms through the flames, a sign of receiving her blessings.

And then just like that it was all over.

The car was quiet on the way back to our guesthouse. A small window had been opened , exposing one of the many sides of Incredible India.

The Magical Mystery Tour

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Lake Palace Hotel

Bheru on his special name day in Udaipur

 

“Allah u Akbar, Allah u Akbar, Ashadu al la illaha ill Allah……”.

What a difference a day makes! Last week I was miserable in Ahmadebad and now it is 6:15 in the morning and the soulful strains of the Muslim call to prayer drifts in through the window of my room.  I love waking up to this.  Udaipur is in the heart of Rajasthan and is as wonderful as Ahmedabad was horrible.  It is the city of Octopussy fame, where the James Bond movie was filmed in 1981. Palaces,fanciful,flowery Mughal designs painted on walls, shrines with incense burning, bells ringing- the stuff of fairy tales.  This is the India I love.  The India of Rudyard Kipling’s Maharajahs and mysterious, bejewelled women hiding behind silky sarees, is easily summoned up in the imagination.

Wandering  narrow lanes in the early morning- before the sleepy city comes to life at 10 or 11 am- I watch the light reflected on the spectacular Lake Palace Hotel, as the sun slowly makes its way over the peaks of the Aravalli mountains which surround Lake Pichola. I check out my beloved Bheru shrine- a god favored by rural Rajasthani women.  Sometimes he is represented by an amorphous mound of tin foil, but today is his special day. An older man, the guardian of the shrine, is busy painting a smiling face with a mustache and a turban on the form.  A piece of flowery blue fabric has been draped around his “body” and garlands of marigolds and roses are hanging around his neck. I admire his work, and he smiles in recognition and pride.  I pass by several times a day to pay my respects.

The vegetable sellers are busily arranging their carts with cauliflower,carrots,eggplants.peas,tomatoes and other various fruits in season. Scooters and motorcycles are crowding around the popular food stalls selling warm breakfast snacks of samosa,and katchuri. (a type of  small,puffy bread stuffed with potatoes and drenched in an eye poppingly spicy  curry sauce. Shopkeepers are setting up their displays of copper pots and utensils, as they light incense in front of their small shrines to ensure a succesful and peaceful day.

 

 


 I have been to Udaipur four times and it remains for me the most beautiful and magicial city in India.

Thursday’s Children

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Monday’s child is fair of face,

Tuesday’s child is full of grace,

Wednesday’s child is full of woe,

Thursday’s child has far to go

Friday’s child is loving and giving

Saturday’s child works hard for a living

And the child that is born on the Sabbath day is bonny and wise and fair and gay.

caption id=”” align=”alignnone” width=”538″] The community Center at Manav Gulvar[/caption]

The  classroom is bright and airy, a ceiling fan is turning slowly, and the children are seated on the floor in two rows, one against each side of the wall. Eighteen pairs of shining, black eyes follow us as we move through the space, getting the room ready for today’s project.  There is a hushed silence that feels like being in a church; each word we speak, each gesture we make, is observed with intense concentration by the children. We decide to make an accordian book of buildings with the children’s collages.  Five, ten minutes go by and I notice that no one has put anything on their board yet.  Nilam, the teacher, pulls me aside. “The children have never seen a real building, so they have no idea what to draw.  All they know are the small shops in their community.  I told them to just draw their favorite shop.”  I am stunned,speechless.  It never occurred to us that this was beyond their scope of experience. Gerald, whose heart is bigger than his size, is forever the optimist.  “Just wait.  Give them a chance, they’ll come around. All they have to do is look outside the window and copy the shrine or mosque, I’ll get them started.”

Hindu shrine in the community center

Mosque in the community center

Bea, one of the Spanish volunteers is in the room with us, as well as two Indian Americans who are there to translate from Gujarati.  None of the children speak either Hindi or English. We  go to each child and gently prod them to pick from the beautiful selection of colorful hand made papers we have brought with us, and paste something on the board. They are more comfortable with rulers and erasers and pencils, freedom is a luxury they have not experienced.

One of the older girls,Monisha,has already started to paste papers on a Hindu Shrine she drew.  Soon the others follow suit, some more slowly than others, but all becoming engrossed in the work.  Two small Muslim boys motion to me to come to them.  I don’t quite understand what they want from me,but the adoring look in their eyes has me almost in tears.  I think they want me to help, so I cut up some shapes and give it to them for their Mosque.  As Nilam passes by I ask her what they want.  She says they think I want them to put these shapes on the board, and they don’t want to do something wrong!


Two hours pass by quickly.  Children from other classes peek inside, smile, shake hands, give hugs, and even another teacher comes to join the project.  Bea and I decide to entertain them with Spanish songs.  I only know a few lines of “Malagueña” and “La Cucaracha”- but it does the trick.  They are all holding their bellies and laughing,shrieking and rolling on the ground in glee.

It is amazing for us, even after six visits to India, to be reminded how cut off some of the locals are, even in big cities. For a few hours a day, these children exist in a safe, protected, joyous and loving bubble. Maybe they do have “far to go” but it brings to mind Mother Theresa’s words

We can do no great things, just small things with great love

Gulvar slum

A very happy group with their finished project

Whose life is it anyway?

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image

While buying train tickets to our next destination in Kerala, I bump into Catherine, a long time British ex-pat we met last year. “If you want a good story, go down to the end of the beach to the “maharajah’s place”, she grins mischievously.

The face of Goa has changed dramatically since independence from Portugal in 1961. Goans were offered the possibility of a Portuguese passport, and many jumped at the chance.  Catholics now account for only 25% of the population, down from 60%, due to the diaspora of Catholics, and the increase of Hindus and Muslims with their large families.  Cruise ships,the Merchant Marine and the Emirates offer high paying jobs, which is reflected in the unusually small size of Goan families. (Men are away  for long periods of time.)

For our morning walk we decide to check out the “maharajah”. At the end of the long sandy stretch of beach  there is a small cove, and we see a cluster of tent structures and a trailer. A man and a woman are busily washing and cooking inside a “work tent”.  They are obviously the servants. In front of the elaborate trailer with solar panels on the roof, sits a neatly bearded man with a gold earring in his left ear. He looks relaxed and carefree in his lounge chair.

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The servants working

As we hesitantly approach, he beckons us to come closer. ” I’m Nenni”, he says with a broad grin as he extends his arm for a handshake. Rather than being the “maharajah” himself , he is the driver. “It took us nine days to drive down here from the north. My boss arrives tonight. He is from a royal family, you know. He owns many agricultural farms and businesses. Every year he comes down with his wife and stays for three months”.  We get a tour of the complex.  The blue oblong tent is the outside shower for the servants.  Inside the trailer there is a bedroom with flat screen tv, fully equipped bathroom and shower, and room for lounging.  The outside is fitted with fold down shelving, and storage bins. The dining gazebo is covered in white canvas material, and an electric fan is is blowing the air around the neatly set table. There are two other tents which are for the servants.

Shower tent

Shower tent

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dining gazebo with ocean view

NENNI’S STORY

Nenni is a man in his early forties and was born as the only son into a Sikh family. At the age of 17 he decided he wanted to go abroad to work, so he cut off his hair, and removed his turban.  Sikhs have a religious obligation to be unshaven and let their hair grow, covered by a turban.  His fear was that he would be mistaken for a Muslim, and  he wanted to avoid being conspicuous.  Because of this act of rebellion he was disowned by his family. After some years living in Europe, he returned home and was accepted back, and  soon a marriage was arranged. ” We just didn’t get along, so I got a divorce.  Now I will get married next week to a Hindu lady.  I am happy and will open my own chicken restaurant in my village”.  When I asked if he had children, he replied that he has two but doesn’t see them often as they live with their mother far away.  We left with handshakes and hugs all around and our promise to visit him and eat at his restaurant when we pass through that area at the end of our journey.