Amritsar, 22nd March
Following a near 24hour bus journey, a confused selection of State Bus changes and a good 16 hour sleep I awake properly to Amritsar on my second day there.
The pollution is clearly visible, the sky simultaneously blue directly above and an overcast grey on the horizon. Amritsar immediately strikes me as an Industrial city, a working hub for the production of whatever goods can be made the provide jobs. The traffic is worse than Delhi, the character more hardened and private than Rajasthan. However Amritsar immediately is the most visibly religious place par maybe Rishikesh I've been yet. The pilgrimage of thousands of Sikhs per day to the Golden Temple just reinforces the sheer amount of religion here. The endless, multi-shaded oceans of turbans set upon the smoke, small manafacturing establishments, eateries and dirty grapes all serve to emphasise the daily reality of religious activity, as much a part of life as driving around the city's streets, laughing and philosophising with family or working on the huge number of construction sites the city houses.
Walking around the oddly positioned Golden Temple it is obvious how such monuments are always surrounded by such normality. I took off my shoes, crudely covered my head with my scarf, and entered the holy temple looking like an idiot pirate. Gora.
Most of the sightseeing was accompanied with bemused smiles from onlookers, groups of men more interested in a 'snap' with me than of the temple itself, and a brief insight into the manifestations of the Sikh culture.
Much of the same at the Jallianwala Bagh memorial. Here the blood of thousands of Sikhs, Muslims and Hindus was split due to brutality and lack of humanity from the British forces in the 1919 massacre. To walk into this memorial as member of the guilty country in hand was extremely resonant and important. Thousands more of these sights must exist, regards to the colonial obsessed bastards. How many more do, and will exist in Iraq and Afghanistan in 5, 10, 20 years time?
The guilt felt at the Jallianwala Bagh was perverted even more so by the eagerness of the surrounding Indians to have more pictures with us. To feel like a circus animal or clown in the court of your trial is perhaps fitting, I do not know.
In truth the nicest Indians we met were the Punjabi women, whose wholesome, honest smiles and approachable manner was only furthered by the numerous presence and confidence. It was here I met my favourite Indian so far, a large, strong women of perhaps 50 or 60, white haired and the owner of the wittiest eyes and chuckle in the subcontinent. She and around 7 younger friends sat around us, staring, exchanging hellos and handshakes. As they bid farewell the woman, who in my memory spoke no English, gave us all a hearty hug upon leaving, and walked back into life muttering conversational Punjabi. Goodbye the, Amritsar.
Dharamsala, 3rd April
Memories * McLeod Ganj
Dharamsala, and more specifically McLeod Ganj, tourist infected area and home of the Tibetan government and culture in exile, was a healing, comfortable and resourceful home for just over a week. It is a symbol of the gorgeous diversity of India, and the simple, infinite hospitality of India. Many Tibetans walked miles through the harsh beautiful terrain of the Himalayas to Dharamsala to exercise freedom of speech, freedom of religion and freedom of Tibetan cultural practices. India, home of 1.17 billion, continues to welcome them in.
The long journey from Amritsar saw me trampled on the floor of a tiny train due to the ridiculous amount of (consistently relaxed) passengers, sick in a train station to the bemused silence of hundreds of onlookers, and finally stunned to a silence of my own by the golden country of Himachal Pradesh and the first sight of the Himalayas. The mountains are alive. They hide in cloud on overcast days, and when their disguises are removed by the movement of wind they announce themselves to Mcleod Ganj with such gigantic, gorgeous severity that one can only stare, and keep on staring.
So we arrived in Dharamsala at night, our only clues to McLeod Ganj being a comparatively small selection of focused lights placed high on the vast landscape. Absolutely robbed of all energy, mugged and beaten of all purpose my body collapsed into bed.
The next few days saw lots of walks, the buying of an incy little guitar, the return of composition, the recovery from illness, the return of illness, new acquatainces, the revival of jumpers and the departure of Katy. Before Katy left we explored half a walk to Dharamkot, the outrageous Engrish of Xcite Bar*, the Pierce Brosnan menu-ed McLlo's bar (lots of Tibetan hipsters sprawled suggestively along tables) and the Buddhist temple complex, in which we stumbled across the lunchtime debate. This saw around 50 monks dressed in the famous maroon-red, paired, exchanging ideas punctuated by long, echoless claps. Unable to understand the language, the spectacle seemed like a marine dance, the inevitable claps similar to a quick turn of a fish's tail. Either that, or the altitude is ruining my brain.
After Katy left, we spent more time with a good humored, down to earth New Zealand couple named respectively Lydia and Duncan. We'd met them on the excruciating 6 hour train ride from Pathankot, and with them we ate, drank, talked of the extremities, beauties and absurdities of India, the experiences of Rajasthan, and also attended a talk with some Tibetan ex-political prisoners.
The talk was humbling thanks to the honest and positivity of those tortured and exiled men, but did not teach me anything I had not imagined, simply reinforcing the importance of the issue. The audience also happened to contain a few of the usual self important types, all to happy to steer the ship of conversation their way, setting sail for cynical Western logic and their views on consumerism and globalisation. Perhaps I was missing the point or am the cynic myself, but in a room full of tourists and English speaking Tibetans, I know who I want to listen too, I'm afraid.
In completely opposite circumstances me and Hari got lost half way up a mountain, attempting to walk to the snow line. Thankyou very much, Himalayan sun, for the neck brace style pinkness I still own below my hairline.
Another recurring feature of Dharamsala was a morose, friendly Kashmiri man named Ali. A shopkeeper, forced to move south from his beloved Kashmir for the tourist beat, he entertained us with his uniquely Indian views on his lovelife, family, Islam, ghosts, business, maternal cooking and the weather. He is a friend.
Finally, I plowed through 'Shantaram' in just over a week, due to it's addictive storytelling and I suspect, my unconscious tendency to skimread. I'm reading 'We' by Yevgeny Zamyatin now.
So in the home of the Dalai Lama, too many of the small events we collectively call living occurred for me to begin recalling even half of them. McLeod Ganj, like most of the India in my heart, is slowly maturing into pure memory.
The long journey from Amritsar saw me trampled on the floor of a tiny train due to the ridiculous amount of (consistently relaxed) passengers, sick in a train station to the bemused silence of hundreds of onlookers, and finally stunned to a silence of my own by the golden country of Himachal Pradesh and the first sight of the Himalayas. The mountains are alive. They hide in cloud on overcast days, and when their disguises are removed by the movement of wind they announce themselves to Mcleod Ganj with such gigantic, gorgeous severity that one can only stare, and keep on staring.
So we arrived in Dharamsala at night, our only clues to McLeod Ganj being a comparatively small selection of focused lights placed high on the vast landscape. Absolutely robbed of all energy, mugged and beaten of all purpose my body collapsed into bed.
The next few days saw lots of walks, the buying of an incy little guitar, the return of composition, the recovery from illness, the return of illness, new acquatainces, the revival of jumpers and the departure of Katy. Before Katy left we explored half a walk to Dharamkot, the outrageous Engrish of Xcite Bar*, the Pierce Brosnan menu-ed McLlo's bar (lots of Tibetan hipsters sprawled suggestively along tables) and the Buddhist temple complex, in which we stumbled across the lunchtime debate. This saw around 50 monks dressed in the famous maroon-red, paired, exchanging ideas punctuated by long, echoless claps. Unable to understand the language, the spectacle seemed like a marine dance, the inevitable claps similar to a quick turn of a fish's tail. Either that, or the altitude is ruining my brain.
After Katy left, we spent more time with a good humored, down to earth New Zealand couple named respectively Lydia and Duncan. We'd met them on the excruciating 6 hour train ride from Pathankot, and with them we ate, drank, talked of the extremities, beauties and absurdities of India, the experiences of Rajasthan, and also attended a talk with some Tibetan ex-political prisoners.
The talk was humbling thanks to the honest and positivity of those tortured and exiled men, but did not teach me anything I had not imagined, simply reinforcing the importance of the issue. The audience also happened to contain a few of the usual self important types, all to happy to steer the ship of conversation their way, setting sail for cynical Western logic and their views on consumerism and globalisation. Perhaps I was missing the point or am the cynic myself, but in a room full of tourists and English speaking Tibetans, I know who I want to listen too, I'm afraid.
In completely opposite circumstances me and Hari got lost half way up a mountain, attempting to walk to the snow line. Thankyou very much, Himalayan sun, for the neck brace style pinkness I still own below my hairline.
Another recurring feature of Dharamsala was a morose, friendly Kashmiri man named Ali. A shopkeeper, forced to move south from his beloved Kashmir for the tourist beat, he entertained us with his uniquely Indian views on his lovelife, family, Islam, ghosts, business, maternal cooking and the weather. He is a friend.
Finally, I plowed through 'Shantaram' in just over a week, due to it's addictive storytelling and I suspect, my unconscious tendency to skimread. I'm reading 'We' by Yevgeny Zamyatin now.
So in the home of the Dalai Lama, too many of the small events we collectively call living occurred for me to begin recalling even half of them. McLeod Ganj, like most of the India in my heart, is slowly maturing into pure memory.
1 comment:
hey did you ever get a phone sorted out in the end? if you have and you've got time would be amazing to hear from you
x
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