This is written by my husband as an end of the journey reflection:
This was my tenth time in India, where I have spent nearly two years of my life. The last two times, as we flew there from San Francisco, I have felt it might be our final visit. Since I first came here in 1976, when I spent a year traveling across Asia, I have had a love affair with this wonderful country. I love the glorious palaces, the temples filled with chanting people in their most brilliant colors, the delicious food, the stunning landscapes- but above all the people. We have so many friends now, caring, loving, and unbelievably gracious.
From our beautiful community and pristine beaches of Agonda in Goa, to the exuberance of the Theyyam rituals in Kerala, to our devoted friends and our work at Manav Sadhna, it is all so totally wonderful. Sitting at our favorite restaurant in Udaipur, looking out over the lights and reflections from the City Palace flickering in Lake Pichola, I feel so blessed to have gotten to know this amazing country, and to have been able to contribute a bit of joy to its children through my art.
We get older, the journey there gets harder, and seems ever longer. And yet… as they say there “In India anything is possible.” So maybe I will walk this subcontinent once more. As all my friends there say to every question, “Why not?”
Dressed in thin, gauzy white cotton robes and carrying small cloth bundles on long wooden sticks, a group of women passed me by as I was walking down the street in Udaipur early one morning. A white mask covered their mouths and they were walking barefoot. Who were they, where were they going and what was their story? I was determined to find out.
I learned that they were Sadhvis, Jain nuns, and that they were itinerant pilgrims. Jainism is one of the three ancient Indian religions along with Hinduism and Buddhism, The name comes from the Sansrit word “Jinja”, which means Victory and refers to the destruction of Karma and the stream of rebirth, or Moksha ,through an ethical and spiritual life.
I had forgotten all about it until Gerald pointed out a beautiful tree growing in the courtyard behind the famous Jain Temple at Ranakpur (between Udaipur and Jodhpur). Three Jain nuns were busily washing their clothes. I saw an opportunity to satisfy my curiosity and approached them cautiously, unsure how they would react. To my surprise they spoke English well and were eager to engage in conversation.
Ranakpur TempleA Jain monastic preparing food inside the templeJain nunsJain nuns doing the wash
I am thirty six years old and have been a nun for seven years. I wanted to be a nun since I was thirteen but I could not get parental permission. They forbade me to join and said I had to wait until I was twenty nine. I said I would not marry and they finally allowed me, seeing how strong I was.
I am nineteen and have been a nun for one year. My sister is a nun also. I am very happy in this life.
I have a degree in Accounting and enjoyed a privileged life. My parents were devout Jain. But I knew from a young age that I wanted to be a nun. My parents were against it, and made me wait until I was twenty five.
Jain nuns forsake all emotional attachments and material possessions. There is an elaborate “wedding” ceremony, called Diksha, attended by thousands of Jain devotees, where all attachment to family, love, feelings of anger,hate and greed, are renounced. A new name is taken and she can never touch any family member or any man again.
The “Guruji”, or elder nun and mentor to the younger nuns, sweeping away any possible insects on the floor where she will walk19 yr. old nun
Having no permanent abode, they wander barefoot, from place to place, always in small groups, depending on the generosity of villagers for their food, and staying in one place no more than a week. This group consisted of nine nuns traveling together, originating from Mumbai. I was told that their next stop was Udaipur, some hundred and twenty miles away, and it would take them seven days to reach there on foot. I was corrected when I asked if the wooden sticks were for walking and was told: “No, they are for protection. We walk at night and there may be animals on the road.”
During monsoon season they remain in a temple and do not travel for four months.
You must speak to our Guruji. She can give you all the information you need about our life, but she is eating now, and no one is allowed to see us eat.
Guruji, Jain Nun, 57 yrs. old sweeping her eating bowl
I was shown into the hostel where they were staying and the simple sleeping room consisted of a marble floor with stacks of blankets, several sweeper brooms with cotton tassels, and hand painted wooden eating bowls.
We are non violent and believe every living thing has a soul. We do not eat any foods that grow underground like potatoes,onions and garlic. Why would we want to kill innocent insects and bugs?Our bodies do not need meat, we are pure vegetarians. That is why we wear face masks and sweep the ground we walk on and the bowls we eat from.
The woman in the corner reading the Dharma is the mother of two nuns. She always wanted to become a nun but her family would not allow it. She married, had two girls and a boy. At age thirty her husband agreed for the whole family to dedicate themselves to a monastic life. At the time the daughters were twelve and thirteen and the son was ten.
Each Jain nun hand embroiders her own personal banner which she carries with herHand Painted personal eating bowls
It is an arduous life. The Guruji wanted me to know that “we wash our clothes every fifteen days and every seven days we pluck the hairs out of our head by hand.”
Each young woman and nun I spoke to expressed the pure joy they felt in their lives of non-attachment, and the Guruji told me that she receives many requests to lecture in villages and cities on the benefits of living a pure non-violent life.
India has been the birthplace of many of the world’s major religions. We can learn lessons from the Jain dedication to preserving and respecting the environment as well as the sanctity of all living creations.
The first condition of understanding a foreign country is to smell it.-Rudyard Kipling
Take me away to a strange and foreign land and leave me be
Let me lay my head down upon the sand
We’re reaching out for something special our minds may never know
It’s the kind of place we dream of and then let go- Anonymous
Palaces, two century old Havelis, turbaned peddlers selling turnips,old women piling rocks on mules to transport who knows where, masala chai, samosas sizzling in a giant iron pot., and my favorite deity, Bheruji. This is My Udaipur.
After the hustle and bustle of traveling in Indian cities, arriving in Udaipur is a most welcome respite. Clean air, roof top restaurants, parrots nesting in scalloped recesses of restored buildings once the residences of the royal family.
If a picture is indeed worth a thousand words, come along with me as I walk through the streets of Udaipur.
First stop Gangaur Ghat- a holy place by the lake where locals feed pigeons in the early morning to insure good Karma.
Shiva Shrine
Shopkeepers are starting to open their stores. This one specializes in brass and copper kitchenwares. I bought several from him in years past.
Water seller
The woman in the pink sari in the doorway on the right is waiting patiently for customers.
Jewelry Merchant
The head of the household looks none too happy about the money he is about to spend on jewelry for a forthcoming marriage, but the ladies are thrilled.
Village women working as day laborers transporting rocks with mules
Our feet are weary and we’re thirsty. A stop for chai at our friends Prem and Kesar. After one hour of playing with the grandchildren and eating too many biscuits, we are ready to move on.
Prem and Kesar, our long time friends
Post funeral rituals by the ghats
I hear drums and see a long procession of women coming down the street. We change directions and follow them as we head to the ghats. They are celebrating the life of an elder in the village who died twelve days ago.
Turnip Seller selling his wares
Udai Koti Palace Hotel
Over the bridge to the other side of the lake for lunch at a former royal palace,Lake Pichola Hotel, passing magical palaces of a bygone era on the way.
Dining room of Lake Pichola Hotel
Lake Pichola Hotel
Time to go back to our lovely old haveli hotel, and pay my respects at one of the many shrines in town dedicated to Bheruji- a local deity favored by rural women.
Bheruji
Sitting on the rooftop terrace all the troubles of the world seem very far away.
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.
I decided to ask random questions of young Indians that I met in order to gain more insight into their thoughts about how they saw their lives and future. Although I usually am more concerned with women’s lives and their challenges, this time I focused more on men. In no particular order this is what they had to say.
Shailin, 34 years old
We met Shailin six years ago when we first stayed at The Metropole Hotel in Ahmedabad. He was working at the front desk and was unmarried. He is now married with two children and is an assistant manager.
What would you wish for to come true in the next five years?
For my whole family to be united. You see I have two children now and they are growing up without their cousins. Mytwo brothers live in the US- Connecticut and Georgia, and we don’t get to see each other very often. That is my greatest wish. Getting money is something everyone will strive for and of course it’s necessary but I don’t care so much about that. It’s my family that’s most important.
Shirish, 40 years old
Shirish was born in Mumbai and adopted as a three month old by a Belgian couple. He was a successful hip hop dancer and choreographer in Europe and gave that up to move to Ahmedabad to devote his life to teaching dance to the children at Manav Sadhna.
What brings you the greatest joy in your life?
Working with children, and seeing them grow and evolve.
Hardik,35 years old
Hardik was a guest at a Hindu wedding we attended recently. He is married and has a good job at The Bank of India. His wife also works in finance.
What is most important to you in your life?
Ashkardam Temple and my faith. Ilove the temple it is so beautiful. Have you visited it?
It is a sect of Hinduism dedicated to Swaminarayan, a yogi who died in 1830. The Delhi temple, believed to be his divine abode, is in the Guinness Book of Records as the largest Hindu Temple in the World.
Fabane,22 years old
On my flight from Kerala to Chennai, Fabane was my seatmate and we struck up a conversation. I asked him if he was a singer or musician because he was wearing earbuds and was listening to music intently while singing aloud joyously. With his good looks and winning smile I thought maybe he was a famous musician. He told me he was a professional cricketer and was on his way to a match. I don’t remember how it began, but we started talking about religion. He is Muslim.
D: Are you religious?
Fabane: Yes. I pray five times a day.
D: What do you like most about your religion?
His eyes lit up and he grinned.
Fabane: I love Allah.
Architecture Students
These young women were staying at our hotel and were a diverse group of Hindu and Muslim students, both conservative and contemporary.
Will you all have arranged marriages?
(With lots of giggles and blushing) Yes.
Do you think your husbands will permit you to work after marriage?
(Enthusiastic response) Yes.
What about after having children?
Blank stares and no response.
I have been casually doing interviews with Indians that I have met over many years,on buses, trains,on the street, and I am struck by how open and willing they are to share their culture and deepest personal thoughts with me.
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.
Nestled between the Artificial Jewellery Shop and the Medical Supplies corner an elderly man sat on a high stool, fiddling with watches. He was surrounded by all manner of clock and watch parts and a small glass case displayed timing devices for sale, costing between a few dollars and several hundred. Gerald lives by the mantra “In India anything is possible”, but hopes for repairing his twenty year old travel alarm were fading.
Its a really cheap clock but its been a lot of places with me over the years and has sentimental value.
We approached the gentleman, asked if he repaired clocks, and he seemed to think it could be done. Of course, in India no one will ever admit that they cannot do something. We had spent the better part of two hours trying to get my IPad keyboard repaired or replaced ( it died suddenly), with no success. Each new person kindly shepherded us to the next “electronic shop” (nothing more then a tiny niche off the main market street crammed with plugs,memory cards,computer cords,etc.), but in the end , no go.
Do you mind waiting ten or fifteen minutes? He thinks he can do it.
I knew how much that clock meant to Gerald and I was enjoying watching the action on that very busy main street, so I said “Sure”.
It was after our dinner, about 8:00pm, and most of the Indian families who were spending their holidays in Udaipur were rushing around in rickshaws at dizzying speed or walking single file to avoid being sideswiped by a car. The evening was just beginning for them and the mood was festive with the whole family in tow- young couples with their children, in -laws on both sides and the occasional lone auntie or uncle.
I had the advantage of being able to see everything from my slightly perched position but not get in the way of the rush of bodies and cars. The main road was narrow, windy and not made for all the vehicles and cows that travel through.
Suddenly chanting and drums came from a loudspeaker nearby, and I craned my neck to see where it was coming from- a wedding procession perhaps? The last call to prayer from the mosques was over an hour ago. When I looked up I saw a Hindu shrine on the upper floor of a building across the road, where an evening puja was just beginning.
In the midst of all this frenetic activity, the clock man smiled at Gerald and said:
Clock fixed now.
The charge was 70 rupees (about a dollar) and we left, knowing that the clock still had many thousands of miles to journey in the future.
“Hey, look what I found at the shop!” Richard ran toward us, grinning from ear to ear, holding up a copy of a book entitled “The Dumb and the Dumbfounded”. “Good title for a series,eh?” We were at the rail station trying to pass the time since our train from Goa to Kannur, in Kerala State, would be delayed at least an hour. My Canadian friend Esther was on her first trip to India, and I was trying to convince her that this train would be much better than the one I took in Orissa when a cockroach crawled over my blanket as I was trying to sleep. “We’ll be in chairs in an open car, it’s really lovely”. Although skeptical, she seemed slightly appeased.
A group of Tibetans had just arrived on the platform and the women were busily fingering their prayer beads, while the men were crowded around one of the accompanying Buddhist monks. They were in earnest conversation with hands and arms flailing about. One of the elder women, dressed in a sarong of bright red handwoven cloth, thick strands of turquoise and coral hanging from her neck alongside a pendant with a photo of the Dalai Lama,was staring at me. I was wearing my usual travel gear: red Indian baggy pants and a scarf embellished with gold flower patterns. My reward for dressing in local style was a betel nut stained,red-toothed smile of approval.
I thought there must be a big meet up with the Dalai Lama or some such religious event and we were all venturing a guess at where they were from and what they were doing here. When I asked, the unexpected response was simply “We are going to the beach”. That’s what you get for stereotyping.
Gerald ran up and down the platform trying to find out exactly where we should be standing to board our train. The platforms were connected by a foot bridge, involving carrying the luggage up and down flights of stairs, and we didn’t want to schlep more than necessary. Richard volunteered to look at the digital board at the entrance since he was the most fleet-footed and the train was scheduled to arrive in twenty minutes.
Meanwhile it was ten minutes before the trains arrival and we couldn’t see Richard. Esther was panicked that he might not make it back in time and would miss the train. “I am not leaving without Richard!” She was adamant.
Finally the train arrived, and baggage in hand, all four of us leaped over the small space between the platform and the train step. A long narrow corridor separated the seats/sleeper bunks and two tier curtains functioned as privacy barriers. Not exactly the “cockroach train”, but definitely a bit of a disappointment since our tickets were first class A/C. We settled in, deciding to put our luggage in the upper bunks and positioning ourselves across from each other. The window, although stained with dirt and mud allowed a filtered view of the lush countryside of palm trees, rice paddies and backwaters.
Within minutes out came the jar of peanut butter, crackers and tasty little bananas. “Meals on Wheels” arrived in the form of Biriyani lunch containers with a choice of veg or non-veg. The aroma of cloves and cardamon lured us into trying one of each. Rice was well seasoned but finding the veggies and the chicken was cause for another round of hysterics. The other passengers in the car must have thought those foreigners are really crazy.
First order of business: Esther and I decided to check out the bathrooms. I had noticed a sign saying “Bio Toilet”, and that sounded promising. There were two- one on each side of our train car. Esther peeked in one. “This one’s a squatter, but it’s clean”. That meant that we could drink water during our eight hour ride and not worry about having to use the toilet. With confidence I went into the second “European style” one, to do my business. Better early on than later when too many people have already been there. The first thing I noticed was the three locks. THREE LOCKS???!!!! What is that all about, I didn’t want to even think about it.
No sooner did I pull down my pants that the train jolted to a halt and I was practically knocked over into the toilet. When I got back to my seat we all broke out into hysterics again and couldn’t stop laughing. Traveling with good friends makes challenges entertaining.
Surprisingly, the conductor made up an hour of our delay by speeding by some of the scheduled stops, leaving bewildered passengers running helplessly alongside the train which only comes once a day.
I did not feel at all guilty thinking “Better them than us”. Such are the joys of travel in India.
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.
Nestled between the Artificial Jewellery Shop and the Medical Supplies corner an elderly man sat on a high stool, fiddling with watches. He was surrounded by all manner of clock and watch parts and a small glass case displayed timing devices for sale, costing between a few dollars and several hundred. Gerald lives by the mantra “In India anything is possible”, but hopes for repairing his twenty year old travel alarm were fading.
I had the advantage of being able to see everything from my slightly perched position but not get in the way of the rush of bodies and cars. The main road was narrow, windy and not made for all the vehicles and cows that travel through.
“Hey, look what I found at the shop!” Richard ran toward us, grinning from ear to ear, holding up a copy of a book entitled “The Dumb and the Dumbfounded”. “Good title for a series,eh?” We were at the rail station trying to pass the time since our train from Goa to Kannur, in Kerala State, would be delayed at least an hour. My Canadian friend Esther was on her first trip to India, and I was trying to convince her that this train would be much better than the one I took in Orissa when a cockroach crawled over my blanket as I was trying to sleep. “We’ll be in chairs in an open car, it’s really lovely”. Although skeptical, she seemed slightly appeased.
THE DREAM OF DISTANT LANDS 