The Taj Mahal

Magnificent


This building reeked of urine.

It's a long walk to the restrooms



Prison Palace of Shah Jahan, where he could view his Taj Mahal.


Tomb of Itmad-Ud-Daulah


I dunno, somebody else's tomb.


Tomb of Akbar the Great

The Taj Mahal

There’s only one good reason on God’s green earth to go to Agra and that’s the Taj Mahal. Actually that’s not true. There are several tombs and grand palaces that are precursors to the Taj Mahal in and around Agra. Palaces and tombs of the first Moghul emperors. They are all very interesting. If you see them in the right order you can see how they each evolved from one another until finally the Taj was the grand culmination. However if you go to Agra I suggest you see them first. Once you see the Taj Mahal, everything else is anti-climatic.

“And this is the magnificent Moghul palace created for Akbar the great. This is where he played hide and seek with his wives.”

“Boooooring! Can we go now?”

Outside the Agra train station there is a small tourist bureau that operates fixed price (and reasonable) tours so you don’t have to go trough the aggravation of bargaining with someone and hope they actually know something. Our guide Bobby was top notch.

Bobby told us the day before was fifty degrees centigrade (122 degrees Fahrenheit). Fifty degrees! That’s half way to boiling you realize! Humans are mammals, and mammals are a cold weather species (except for me who likes it hot); things don’t look good for mammals when Global Warming really kicks in. India’s already being affected, the glaciers in the Himalyas that keep the rivers running year round are retreating rapidly. Plus they’re still getting the same amount of rainfall as twenty years ago, but it’s all coming in a few big storms instead of the steady rains they’ve always had.

The good thing about the heat was that the waiting line was only a few dozen meters long to get inside the Taj Mahal.

I got a big surprise when we paid for our tickets to the Taj. For almost all India tourist attractions we went to I always had to pay about 300 Rupees ($6) and Kovi had to pay 20 Rupees (a dime). But at the Taj he had to pay 15 Rupees and I had to pay over 700. That they would gouge a Westerner is not what surprised me. What surprised me was that the entry fee for ASIANS was 500 Rupees. Lots more than an Indian, but less than an American or European. What counts as an Asian anyway? Is a Russian Siberian an Asian? A Turk? A rich Saudi Prince? If a Japanese-American tours the Taj, what do they pay? So after all the grief I’ve received about American racism, Indians practice it with even more precision than anybody else in the world.

Can you imagine going to Disneyland and the ticket agent looking at you and saying, “White, $2. Hispanic, $20. Indian, $50”. There would be a major uproar. But in India this is to be expected. And it’s not racism if it is white people being discriminated against.

However to make up for this crass favoritism at the Taj, Westerners and Asians can use the bathrooms for free. Indians have to pay 2 rupees (1 cent). Revenge is sweet!

One good thing about being American in India is that we never did anything to them. We never colonized them. We never enslaved them. We never bombed them. We generally just ignored them. They were always a British thing.

So whenever they complain about the British I can say, “I’m not British, never was, never will be. And despite you thinking we are buddies, that really only came about around WWII just before they left India. Even in WWI we weren’t so friendly. So don’t look at me accusingly when you recite the sins of the British Empire, we were competitors with them. We sided with you.”

The Taj Mahal is one of the few things that lives up to its promise. It is truly a magnificent specimen of architecture, art, and love. It was built by Mughal Emperor, Shah Jahan, as a mausoleum for his third wife, Mumtaz Mahal. It took 23 years to complete and is perfectly symmetrical. Even the grounds are symmetrical. It only took 5 years for the basic building, but the inlaid artwork took another 17 years to complete. It is marvelous from far away, and marvelous up close. And it is huge.

When you look at a picture of the Taj you will see a tall brass top piece of a crescent moon, apropos because the emperor was a Moslem. To give you an idea of the size, that brass top piece is ten meters tall.

And it was built to last. If you notice the four minarets around the Taj Mahal they all lean outward at at 1 ½ degree angle, just in case of earthquake they won’t fall into the Taj. Now that’s thinking.

In the second photo you can see two buildings on either side of the Taj Mahal that are mostly hidden by the trees. The one on the left is now a mosque. A mosque at the Taj Mahal? A victory mosque? Oh, yeah, the Moslems won here. The Emperor was Moslem. By the way, I’m told by Hindus that all mosques are victory mosques, something to keep in mind.

Actually his grandson, Akbar the Great, got so fed up with all the religious quarrelling that he started a new religion that said there was one God and everybody had to worship the same God. To keep his kingdom balanced he had three wives, a Moslem, a Hindu, and a Christian. But after he died the priests and mullahs got their religions back. His religion didn’t survive.

The most amazing thing about the Taj Mahal is that it is still white. In 1984 the Indian Supreme Court realized that the pollution coming from local factories was staining the white stone yellow and set up a 100 kilometer protective area that banned factories. This doesn’t mean there’s not pollution mind you, it’s just not as bad as it would be without the ban.

The people still complain about the high unemployment due to this ban. But after 26 years they still haven’t figured out anything else to do that doesn’t pollute? God forbid they just install pollution control equipment. Then again, that’s their competitive advantage, they’re willing to poison themselves for money. But at least Agra has a huge tourist influx due to the Taj, when was the last time you visited Detroit?

An Indian friend of mine, Pramoud, was always dis’ing the British, claiming they had taken all the gold from India and the jewels from the Taj Mahal. So I asked Bobby about the theft.

“That is a myth”, he said sternly, “The British helped to restore the Taj Mahal to it’s former glory”. A guy named Captain Joseph had founded an organization dedicated to restoring and maintaining the cultural treasures of India. It was the Persians in the early 1700’s who had looted the Taj Mahal. The tall brass piece on top used to be gold, they took that. Captain Joseph raised the money to have it restored and a brass replica top piece installed in 1940.

Bobby went on to expound on Captain Joseph and all he and the Anglo-Indian organization he founded had done for Indian cultural treasures and how it was still working hard today. I never met any Indian who went so out of his way to defend the British.

Of course Bobby’s story may not be quite true, it looks like the British Army did chisel out some of the lapus lazuli and other precious stones from the Taj Mahal in the 1850’s. But then, just like everything else with their Empire, they paid to put it back later.

It reminds me of the fact that the English spent centuries and a fortune trying to stamp out the Welsh language and now that it’s dying out they spend millions trying to keep it alive.

When we got close to the Taj we had to put on protective slippers. The inlaid marble is exquisite. Words do not do justice to the beauty of the place. I was encouraged to come at dawn just to see the Taj in a different, more beautiful light. However, I had a real Western Hotel room and bed, so I wasn’t that motivated.

The Emperor must really have loved her to build her such a monument. She is entombed in the center and he a few feet to the left of her. His tomb is the only thing not symmetrical about the place. He was actually overthrown by his son who jailed him in a palace nearby where he could view the Taj Mahal. It is said he cried every day looking at it.

Bobby explained, “When she was dying she made him make three promises. First that he would take care of the children”. Okay, fair enough. “Second that he would not remarry”, now that seems odd as she was technically his third wife, after all he was Muslim and allowed to have four wives at any one time, “And third, that he build her a beautiful mausoleum unlike any the world had ever seen”

Now wait just a gosh darn minute. You’re telling me this wasn’t his idea? He didn’t do this out of love? This is not the world’s greatest love story? The poor guy was guilt tripped into building it by a jealous, possessive, megalomaniac wife?! I suspect he knew he would see her again in heaven and didn’t want to spend eternity with her nagging him about how he promised to build her a magnificent tomb but look at the one some Chinese Empress had! Like every other husband on Earth, fear of his wife drove him to do the batty things he did.

Bobby didn’t understand my disappointment in the story. We toured around the Taj, examining all the artwork. I decided I wanted to visit the open air building to the right of the Taj. There’s really nothing there, but I walked in and there was a washer woman sitting in a corner. The building smelled of urine. Ironically the closer I got to the washer woman’s area the stronger the smell got.

Please people, tell me you’re not peeing on a UNESCO World Heritage site. Granted the restroom is a good 100 yards away, but still…

We went over to the building on the left which was a mirror image of the building on the right, an open air building. This was the mosque and an Imam guided us around.

One thing you should know is that the Taj is closed on Fridays, Islam’s holy day. Why? Because the Taj Mahal is a Muslim holy site? No, it’s just a tomb (However, Hindu Fundamentalists claim it was built on the site of an ancient Hindu Temple. Then again, throw a rock and you’ll hit an ancient Hindu temple). No, it’s closed because the building on the left, inside the main grounds, is a mosque. On Fridays everyone would claim to be a Muslim going to prayers to avoid paying the entrance fee to the Taj Mahal. The government wasn’t going to tolerate lost revenue so they close the place on Fridays, no tourists, no prayers, no nuttin’.

We got to a corner of the mosque and again I smelled the faint whiff of urine. Perhaps it was centuries old, worked into the stone. But somehow I fear it has more to do with the 2 rupees they charge for the restroom.

Okay Nehru, you win, this place is too special, too beautiful, too glorious, this is one of the Seven Wonders of the World.

Please…I beg of you…let them pee for free.

The Temple of Doom

It looks so benign from afar


Palace in the lake


The first thing to greet me in the morning, swastikas.


We’ve seen the major spots of Jaipur and so this morning I wanted to see the Ganesh Temple. I saw it over my Palace walls last night as it was pointed out by Gauwar the Palace manager. Gauwar is the penultimate Indian Hotel manager, intelligent, polite to a fault, soft spoken, and a big smile. We’ve taken to talking to him as there are no other guests around. I couldn’t see the Temple well, but it looked fairly close by and it looked big.

So I insisted we visit it this morning. I’ve been disappointed by the Hindu temples here, I’ve seen pictures of so many over the years, and I know there are some giant ones in the south, but the ones in the north have been small and boring, with the exception of Haridwar of course. Somehow I knew this Ganesh Temple would be different.

Our driver told us that temple had 100 stairs. All the better I thought, it must be a really big temple, and all the stairs made it extra holy, you really have to wanna go. So we drove through a bad neighborhood to get to the base of the steps. We jumped out and of course were immediately inundated with the standard hawkers and touts, that’s a good sign, lots of people must come here.

We started up the 100 stairs and I couldn’t see the temple anywhere, it must be around the bend. Luckily it was early morning, so the temperature had yet to reach one hundred degrees. It’s a dry heat, so you have no idea you’ve sweated away a gallon of water and are near heat stroke until you collapse.

One of the problems when climbing up a hill or a mountain is you always think the top is around the next bend. We walked up the path and one hundred steps and were exhausted and sweating profusely. While there were steps, there were also large sections where you just walked uphill at a steep angle. Everybody we passed said the same thing and we had to repeat it, “Yah Ganesh”. I guess it’s the same as ‘Go ‘Niners. The temple must be around the next bend.

We climbed and climbed. It turned out there were close to 400 steps plus the incline. Poor Kovi was breathing heavy and sweating like a pig. I kept apologizing and saying we can go down, but he just kept saying, “Idril, I have to thank you, you’re bringing me to God”. The worst part is that he was serious. You may be seeing God in a few minutes if your ticker gives out, Kovi.

We rounded a bend and up on a hill I saw a large non-descript building with a giant swastika on it.

The first day they put me in the condo I had a little start when I looked at the calendar on my wall, there were two swastikas on it. The swastika is an ancient Hindu symbol signifying luck or an auspicious start. It is on the hand of Ganesh, the Elephant God. When Hindu’s pray to Ganesh it is generally for some new change in their lives.

Adolph Hitler, being the evil genius that he was, reversed the direction of the arms from clockwise to counter clockwise and perched it on one end as a symbol of the Nazi party. How apropos for the Nazis to take a good luck symbol and reverse it. Until he died and the symbol vanquished there was nothing but bad luck for the rest of the world.

So even though I know intellectually that it is a different symbol, my gut still tightens when I see it. It doesn’t help that I’ve got enough Jewish blood to be eligible for Nazi extermination. One Jewish grandparent is all you need.

To make it worse the swastika is everywhere here. It greets me in the morning as I wake up, it greets me in the markets, it even greets me in Holy temples. Germany has banned the symbol in the country, India embraces it.

The temple is high on a hill. There’s no real architectural interest to it, it’s just a square building. What I thought was the lighted outline of a large temple close by my palace was the lights from a far away temple on a hilltop. And the hilltop is easily 600-800 feet of climbing.

We reach the top with the exhaustion of true pilgrims and take off our shoes. This taking off the shoe stuff is getting irritating, I don’t know why they insist my bare feet get soiled with their dirty floors.

People are bowing and touching the first step, I try to do the same, but I daren’t bow my head down, my senses are heightened. I’m on the lookout for Nazis. The words of John Belushi in the Blues Brothers kept repeating in my brain, “Nazis, I hate Nazis”.

Up the stairs I see a group of people crowding around and praying in front of a small alcove. I can see a priest sitting there taking the donations and keeping the incense going. Priests sure have an easy time of it here, no dealing with people’s confessions, no pregnant nuns, no bingo nights. They just take the money, chant away, and keep the incense going.

But what the heck? This is the Ganesh temple, where’s Ganesh? I make my way forward, of course I have to push and shove my way forward, this is India, there’s no sense of waiting your turn, and peer in. There, ten feet away against the far wall, is a small foot high standard ceramic issue statue of Ganesh.

That’s it?! That’s what I climbed up 600 feet for?! This is what I risked my life for? This is why Kovi is close to a cardiovascular event? A foot high statue of Ganesh? And I can’t even see it as it’s so far away? And people are seriously praying to it? Do you people not know how religion is supposed to work? Lots of gold, silver, jewels, art work. Have the Catholics had no influence on you at all?

And Kovi’s very happy to be here too.

“Idril, I have to thank you, you brought me to God”

You call that a God? If you’re going to worship an idol at least make it a good idol. Hell, at least Aaron made a golden calf. Haven’t you guys seen St. Peters? Mecca? The Golden Temple? Wealth and art is what religion is about. Jeez.

I left Kovi and made my way around the temple. Not much to see really, but a good view of Jaipur from the roof. On a faraway lake there is a palace that was built in the middle of it. The only way out there is by boat. It’s currently closed, but someday will reopen to Dubai Sheiks and Russian Oligarchs, I’m sure. This time they’ll keep the Expedia people out.

After a last look at Jaipur, I turned to go and I found myself face to face with two Nazi guards. They seized me and took me down a hidden staircase. I was taken to an evil looking officer and thrown on the floor.

“How did you find us?” he announced.

“Whaddya mean, ‘How did you find us?’”, I asked, “There’s a giant swastika on the temple”.

“Yes, we’ve been meaning to paint that over”, he mumbled, “But why did you come here? No Americans come here in the summer time, it is a death trap.”

“I’m not too bright”, I admitted.

“Well we will see what the Fuhrer says. He wants to meet you.”

“The Fuhrer?”

I was led away down into a large complex. There seemed to be a lot of activity with lots of people with computers and headsets.

We finally made it into a large paneled room with a large desk at one end. Behind it sat a bald man with hawklike eyes.

“Cheney?” I said out loud. They led me forward.

Cheney spoke, “So Idril, we meet at last”.

“Is this where you were hiding out for seven and a half years?” I asked.

Cheney slammed the table, “My life was in danger! I was the most important person in the world and everybody wanted to kill me. America needed me! Without me you would be lost!” He yelled.

“You know, America has lasted for two hundred years and lost many Presidents. The concept that you politicians are indispensable is ridiculous”.

“Silence! We have very important work to do. You see, the end of Western Civilization is at hand. We’ve spent ourselves broke, we’ve got ourselves involved in expensive wars we cannot win, and we’ve polluted and hunted nature to extinction.”

“Wait a minute, you did that!” I said angrily, pointing at him.

Cheney smiled, “All part of the plan. See, people have to be broken before they can be controlled. As long as they are happy and productive they are secure, independent, and cannot be ruled effectively. We had to end the prosperity. Once fear takes hold they will grasp at anything. And that anything will be us.”

“But why here in India? Why aren’t you in a cave in the U.S.?”

“Because all the world’s computers are controlled from here. Everything is outsourced to India. Control the world’s computers and you control the world. My people control all the major companies of the world. Control of the Social Networking sites will seal the deal. We can track anybody and everybody, tell them to show up for a party, and seize them all. A flash mob becomes a mass arrest. Via Facebook we will guide a takeover of the world!”

“You’re mad” I said, but it did sound plausible. “What do you need me for?”

“You? You’re nothing. It’s your father we want, with you as hostage he will have no other choice but to work for us. You see, the most important computers in the world belong to the World Bank, the Central Banks, and the Governments”

“So what? He has no access to any of that.”

“We can get him access. I have the best hackers in the world working for me.”

“So why do you need him?”

Cheney sighed, I obviously didn’t get it. “He knows COBOL. Those damn computers were programmed decades ago, none of these Indian guys know it. Java? Oracle? C++? No problem. But COBOL? Too old.” He tapped a pencil on his desk distractedly.

“It will never work”, I said confidently, “People won’t fall for you”

Cheney laughed. “We botched two wars costing countless lives and money, destroyed an American city, crashed the world economy while bailing out the rich, and packed the Supreme Court with people who declared corporations have unlimited money to influence elections, and still”, he paused for emphasis, ”forty percent of Americans think we did a good job.”

He let that sink in, but I think his face showed a little sadness.

“This”, he continued, coming back to life and motioning to the computers, “will be cake”.

“So I gotta know”, I wondered, “You guys let Bin Laden go at Tora Bora on purpose didn’t you? Even the dumbest cop on the beat knows to surround the house with the perpetrator and not let him escape.”

He looked at me incredulously, “Of course. Once Bin Laden and Al Zawahiri were dead then America will start questioning why we needed to be in all these bush wars.” He laughed, “Ha! Ha! Get it? Bush Wars!” He doubled over, pounding the table, gasping for breath. “Ha! Ha! Ha! I kill me”.

I gulped, I had to change the subject.

“How did you know I’d be here?” I queried.

Cheney looked up, “Ravi”.

“Ravi?” I was surprised, “He’s just a cockroach.”

“He’s OUR cockroach”, he answered, “He’s been reporting on your movements for weeks. Actually they’re all ours. Remember the restaurants in Haridwar with the cockroaches on the wall? Remember the restaurant in Chandigar with the cockroach behind the condiments? The closets? The bathrooms? Cockroaches in India are the best network one could have. They’re all on our side, plus they know if we accidentally kick off WW III, they get to rule the world.”

I had to admit, he had all his bases covered. It all began to sink in.

Just then the door burst open and there stood Ravi with a few dozen of what I presumed were his relatives, all armed and dangerous.

“Let him go Dick!”

“Ravi! What are you doing?” Cheney demanded.

“Rescuing Idril” Ravi answered.

“But why Ravi?” I asked, “You were reporting on me”

“You left banana peels for me on the sink.”

“They were in a garbage bag” I insisted.

“Still, it’s the thought that counts.”

"What's with the kevlar?" I asked, "You've already got a shell".

"Yeah", Ravi replied, "But a cockroach in a flack jacket looks really badass".

The Nazi’s didn’t fight back. They knew that fighting cockroaches was futile. Ravi and his Company of Indian cockroaches pulled me out of the Nazi Temple of Doom, grabbed Kovi, and brought us back to my palace. At the front gate we shook hands and parted.

“Sorry Ravi, the Raj Palace is the best Heritage Hotel in the world. No cockroaches allowed, not even in the kitchen.”

“That’s okay”, he answered, “I’ve got to get back home and check on the kids, all four hundred of them.”

“Not to sound ungrateful”, I added, “But you still only get the kitchen and livingroom. Any of your relatives in my bedroom or bathroom I squash.”

“It’s a deal.” Ravi replied, “As long as you keep leaving out those banana peels.” He started to walk away then thought of something and turned back to me, “By the way, are you ever going to clean that film of pigeon poop on the floor? My wife’s been bugging me.”

The Maharaja

Kovi and I are staying at the Raj Palace in Jaipur. It was recommended by my friend Laura who stayed here a couple of years ago. I’d grown tired of living like a real Indian and wanted to spend a few days in a place where I knew I wouldn’t be poisoned.

Jaipur is in the state of Rajasthan, a dry, dusty, desert area in the west of India. It is known for it’s forts and the Pink Palace. The Pink Palace has been used in around 400 movies, so you might recognize it. Actually everywhere I go in Jaipur I feel like I’m in an Indiana Jones movie.

http://www.google.co.in/images?hl=en&q=pink+palace+jaipur&um=1&ie=UTF-8&source=univ&ei=nbEYTI_2DoKVrAeUn8DjAQ&sa=X&oi=image_result_group&ct=title&resnum=5&ved=0CCUQsAQwBA

About 150 years ago, Prince Albert, Queen Victoria’s husband, visited Jaipur and the Maharaja told everyone on the main drag to paint their houses pink with white trim. It works around here, what with all the desert, and so now it is a law.

The Raj Palace was the palace of a Maharaja years ago and has been converted into a Heritage Hotel. Heritage Hotels are a special breed of hotel that were once something else, like a palace, and are high end places.

The palace is about the size of a football field, has 40 suites, seven courtyards, tons of hallways, and a staff of 105. In their top suite the furniture is silver and the trimming 24 karat gold leaf. They have a dessert here for $500 that includes a checkup by a doctor and gold leaf sprinkled on top. The place is exotic and beautiful. It has won an award for the best Heritage Hotel in the WORLD for the last three years running. Check out the pictures, especially number nine of the expensive suite.

http://www.rajpalace.com/photo-gallery.html

So why am I giving such a big send up of the Raj Palace? Because we are the only people here. We have it all to ourselves. Why? Because it is off season and approximately one hundred and fourteen thousand fucking degrees outside. During the tourist season this place gets packed with Russian oligarchs and Dubai sheiks, but today it is ruled by two middle class ne’er-do-wells who just want a bed. They now call me the Maharaja of the Raj Palace, because I’m paying, so I have 105 retainers at by beck and call.

The staff has nothing else to do except hover around us, wanting to make our every moment special. They place all new flowers around the hotel every day, just for us. They put out the croquet set as well, just in case we decide we feel like we have to have a game. They bow constantly as we pass. Sometimes I have to count each of my return bows to make sure I got everybody. My back is killing me.

At dinner last night we had to shoo them away. Now instead of beggars looking at us trying to figure out what we could give them, the staff examines our every move, trying to figure out what they could give us. I am highly aware that in the midst of all this poverty and hunger (including my own sometimes) they need to keep every item on this luxurious menu fresh and on hand in case we order it. This is highly uncomfortable for a middle class guy who normally eats leftovers alone watching reruns of ‘Friends’.

We sat alone in a large dining hall decked with the largest crystal chandelier in India. There were sixteen of them made, fifteen of them ended up with the Sultan of Brunei (of course he added emeralds and rubies to his) and the last one is here. Silver and gold leaf decks everything. A teenaged boy sat outside playing a local instrument serenading us. It would have been quite romantic if I’d been with Inga and her heavenly lotions instead of Kovi.

When it came time for dessert Kovi ordered ice cream with mint sauce and chocolate sauce mixed together. The gold leaf dessert was not good enough for him. They did not have mint sauce, only pure mint. He sat and lectured them on how they should get the mint sauce and then they’d have a really good dessert. They listened enthusiastically, after all this was a close friend of the Maharaja talking, and said they would consider it, they are always willing to change for the better. I sincerely hope they don’t take our petty bourgeois ideas seriously.

I found out the top suite goes for $13,000 for two days. If I’d known it was that cheap I would have booked it. I’m also told that next year they are creating another suite that will go for $70,000 for two days. That’s only $35,000 per night. Cheap, if you’re a Russian Oligarch.

The honeymoon’s over, I’ve just returned from a stroll around my palace grounds and found a pigeon nest above an entranceway, had the groundskeeper flogged. It’s tough love, but I will not tolerate laxity if we are to maintain our status as the best Heritage Hotel in the world. We’re not dropping the ball on my watch, we can’t let up for a minute. A guy could get used to being Maharaja.

So I can hear you all wondering, ‘How much did you pay for a Maharaja’s Palace, the best Heritage Hotel on Earth?’ Well on Expedia it was $215 a night, plus tax. So if you ever want an entire Maharaja’s Palace to yourself I recommend you wait until the off season and book a room at the Raj Palace in Jaipur. You have my guarantee as a Maharaja it will be worth it.

Driving in India

Obstacle Course of Dogs. The one in the front has a broken leg already. They never learn.


Overloaded is just right.


Speaks for itself.



Notice the guy doesn't move as the car passes. Easier to lose a foot that way.


My Gluteus Maximus is strong as steel now. No, I haven’t been exercising, or climbing the Himalayas, it comes from clenching and unclenching my butt cheeks as a car in the opposite lane passes or we pass as well. To top it off, no matter how much space and time you have, it is a law that you can only miss the other car by half a millimeter. The long drives produce about forty heart stopping, sphincter locking, incidents an hour.

Oddly enough all this tension sometimes knocks me unconscious. The constant adrenaline charge overtaxes my system and I pass out after an hour or so. That’s really quite amazing when you think about it, sleeping through the danger. But the human body can only take so much.

I’ve been in India now for 20 days and been in two car accidents. You realize of course that if I stay here a year that’s 36 accidents a year. The first occurred when we were driving from Agra to Delhi. We went screaming through an intersection, there were no lights, stop signs, roundabouts, or anything, and a motorcycle wasn’t paying attention. Hell, nobody pays attention. We came through so fast he hit our rear wheel and broke our hubcap. Of course we only saw that later when we stopped for gas.

We were already 30 meters on before we had a chance to look around and see if the motorcyclist was okay. I’d seen him coming and crouched for impact, the crunch was right next to me. I couldn’t tell who was who in the mangle left behind, but everyone assured me there was no problem, he was okay.

‘No problem’, that’s what everybody here tells me. It basically means, ‘If I have to actually look at the situation objectively then I might come to a conclusion that does not profit me. Therefore I merely assure you there is no problem, do not engage you, and hope you passively accept that I’m telling the truth. This benefits you because if I am wrong you can blame me rather than yourself for being so stupid to believe me.’

In this case I was a little relieved we didn’t stop. If we had returned and they’d seen a Westerner, everybody within a hundred feet would have fallen to the ground and claimed we’d hit them and I’d spend the rest of my life handing out Rupees.

There’s only one thing that prevents the entire country from being wiped out in traffic accidents and that is the underpowered vehicles do not allow for high speeds. It takes about 3 hours to go 60 miles so you can see we don’t get up to speed that often. That said, four people were killed in front of the office last week. Four out of 1.2 billion, nobody cares.

Do the police say, “We’re sick and tired of picking up dead bodies?” Do the relatives say, “We want something done, we don’t want this happening to somebody else?” Nope, there’s plenty more people where they came from.

People here regard driving as a joy ride instead of the dangerous occupation it is. Everybody is casually oblivious that anybody else shares the road with them. No matter how many lanes a road may have all of them are used by a driver. If somebody else really wants to pass they will honk.

Honking in the U.S. means, ‘Get out of the way you stupid moron or I’ll mow you down!’, in India it means, ‘I’m coming up on your right, please don’t kill me.’ India still hasn’t thrown off British Colonialism, they still drive on the wrong side of the road, so when I say right side I mean passing lane to Americans.

And you don’t dare pass on the left side. We came upon a truck in the passing lane of a four lane road. The slow lane was empty. Rather than pass in the slow lane Gopi moved into oncoming traffic and passed that way, honking his horn the whole time to warn everybody.

“What are you doing! Why don’t you use the slow lane, it’s empty!” I screamed.

“In India it’s better to not do something people don’t expect!” he yelled back.

People expect you to do crazy things here.

Personally I think everyone smokes a joint before they get on the road. We’ll be on a four lane road (two in either direction) and the person in front of you cannot figure out for the life of them why they built such a wide road and feel it is their duty to weave all over it in order to use it all. You come up behind them and blow your horn to ask them to stop riding the white line in the center.

And it’s not like lanes are not marked, they are, with invisible paint. It is visible only to Westerners. I don’t know why they bother. But this is quite useful when there is traffic as you can create as many lanes as necessary to get by.

We were on a two lane road once and hit a traffic snarl of about a hundred vehicles at a one lane bridge. Yes, a one lane bridge, quite a debacle. On our side there were now four lanes, and four coming from the opposite direction, all trying to get in front of the other guy. To top it off, everyone is honking because they were frustrated they could not get through. Our driver somehow made a fifth lane, that’s right, a fifth lane on a two lane road in a town, and we zipped in front of everyone and across the bridge. I was amazed.

Wealthier people employ driver’s here, especially for their families. Driving is a skill that takes years to hone. Gopi’s friend gave him one of his drivers.. It turned out the guy was pretty good. But then he just stopped showing up, which is why the friend dumped him on Gopi to begin with, he was unreliable.

Then, when the driver needs money he just calls up and begs for his job back. Actually he doesn’t beg, he accuses Gopi of not calling for him. There’s never a credible explanation why he didn’t show up. But again, everyone is at the mercy of the lower classes. If they don’t show up then we don’t go anywhere.

Last night Gopi was backing out of a parking space, now don’t think there are parking space lines or anything, even if there are, they are ignored, and at the same time a Sikh guy was backing out of his space. So we’re all backing out at odd angles.

Neither of them were paying attention. I was the one who noticed the other guy and told Gopi. He honked his horn, but the other guy is used to hearing horns, it can’t be for him, I watch him as he continues to look forward, not behind him, or in his mirror, and continues backing out.

The truly amazing part of this was I observed the entire event from start to finish. I saw the guy get in his car, I knew we were backing out, I saw him put his car in reverse, but it never occurred to me that both drivers were oblivious to their surroundings. In the U.S. you presume somebody is paying a modicum of attention, at least the guy with the most expensive car. It wouldn’t have taken much to have avoided it. But these guys were lost in their own reefer haze.

He hit us in the left rear bumper and side. Then he pulled forward, we pulled forward, and discussed the issue. He denied it was him that hit Gopi. Brother Sikh, I’m so disappointed, I thought you guys were better than that. You are lying right through your teeth. It couldn’t be more obvious. I watched you. Oh, I forgot, everybody smokes a joint before getting in a car, you were probably spaced out and didn’t even notice. You couldn’t understand why your car wouldn’t go any further. I guess I should be surprised you didn’t give it more gas, “Gee, what am I stuck on?”

(Postscript: After returning to America I saw an Indian girl in a Driver’s Training car in my neighborhood and her instructor was and old Sikh guy. My heart skipped a beat.)

Gopi didn’t put up a fuss as there was no point, the guy would call three of his friends, Gopi would call three of his friends, tons of time and effort would be wasted over the next two years, all to no avail. I had half a mind to kick a huge dent in the guy’s door and say, “No, it wasn’t me”.

This is where the Second Amendment comes in handy. Knowing the other guy may be packing heat on the road definitely keeps you on your toes in the U.S. Road rage has its advantages. Just cutting someone off means you’re possibly taking your life in your hands, so you think twice. Nobody would think about doing these stupid things in America, if the accident didn’t kill you, the other driver would.

Of course the best one is when entire families will load up on a motorcycle, father driving, kid between, mother on back with baby on her lap and one kid clinging to the handle bars. The youngest I’ve seen is three years old, sitting in front of his dad, oblivious that death is only a small pothole away. Gopi says that he used to think that was normal, now he would never ride with his child like that.

Some of the girls drape one arm over their boyfriend’s shoulder in a manner that assures if she goes down she brings him down with her. There’s nothing like true love.

As far as motorcycle helmet laws go, freedom of religion kicks in. Sikh men wear turbans. Technically there’s nothing I’ve heard of, and I asked, that they HAVE to wear a turban, it’s just that with all that hair it looks better and is a cultural thing. Similar to the veil for Muslim women, Muhammad’s wife didn’t wear a veil, it became a cultural symbol later.

So with a turban they cannot wear a helmet. This got the Sikh men exempted through freedom of religion. But somehow the Sikh women said it was part of their religion too, so they got exempted. Except you cannot tell a Sikh woman from a Hindu woman from her appearance, they don’t wear turbans. So basically no women get stopped for not wearing a helmet, so none do. The only ones that have to wear a helmet are Hindu men. Darwinism is alive and well on the Indian roads.

In America I always presume everybody out on the road is trying to kill me, this keeps me on my guard. But while I presume somebody may not be paying attention, I also presume they don’t want to die. This is the advantage of being raised Christian, we think we only get one life so we’d better be careful with it.

But in India, with all those people believing in reincarnation it is obvious people really aren’t too concerned about this life. This is made crystal clear when I see motorcycles going the wrong way in a roundabout. When you know you’re coming back again, why put forth a lot of effort into safe driving? Besides, in the next life you might upgrade to a car instead of a motorcycle.

In Chandighar they decided to tell people how long it would be until the light turned green. There is a digital second clock that counts down the seconds to green. Of course this just means ‘GENTLEMEN START YOUR ENGINES!’. Everybody then takes off with about six seconds to go. After all, it will be green in six seconds, why waste time?

There’s only one traffic law, ‘Might makes Right’. Bikes give way to motorcycles to autorickshaws (three wheeled vehicles) to cars to trucks. The key is to only pull out in front of someone weaker than you.

One time in Delhi our driver decides to whip a U-turn in the middle of a busy downtown street.

“Go up to the next roundabout! It’s only 30 meters away!” I yell. After all, roundabouts are built-in U-turns right? I try not to yell at the driver, but even one percent of the near misses is a lot of yelling. One time I grabbed the wheel and that didn’t go down well, but this time I’m in the back seat.

“It’s not dangerous”, says Kovi, and the driver pulls the U-turn risking life and limb in order to avoid a safer method which would take another forty seconds.

“Krishna save me”, I mumble.

Kovi’s right though, driving in India is not dangerous, it’s only dangerous if somebody kills you.

Forget those Indy race car games, someone should come up with a 3-D Indian driving video game. I guarantee a great adrenaline rush!

Doing Business in India

We went to Ludhiana for a small conference at a hotel. About 400 people were expected to show up. Gopi had done a deal with the sponsor to pay for some of it in return for booth space.

Once there we were told that another ‘Digger Guy’ had asked for space too, been told there was none, so he’d booked a room downstairs for his stuff and aimed to leach off of our advertising and poach our potential customers.

I noticed after a while that lots of people were coming in to the hotel, but not a lot made it upstairs to us. I sat in the lobby and saw that the Digger Guy had taken one of his employees and strategically placed him to hand out flyers and direct them to his room.

I was furious, only half those exiting his room realized there was something going on upstairs despite the signs, half were leaving. I ran upstairs and grabbed some brochures and came back down and stood in front of Digger Guy’s guy, handed out brochures, and directed them upstairs. I told Gopi and his sponsor to send people downstairs, this was war.

If Digger Guy wants to steal customers I’ll show him that American’s can’t be pushed around. I planned on an arms race, we’ll post two people to his one. It’s a cold war, American’s are good at arms races.

But the people they sent downstairs were so passive they just stood off to the side hoping nobody would notice them instead of attracting attention and handing out brochures and directing people upstairs.

Gandhi is portrayed as some sort of genius saint in the West for his successful policy of passive resistance to British rule. But it’s obvious to me now he was just working with what he had. Indians excel in passive aggressive. They don’t react to anything hardly and just push their way around without any respect for anybody else. The British just got fed up with all the rude people and left.

At the airline counter in Delhi there was your standard line that weaves around and then you take the next available clerk. I was next in line and some Indian lady just steps right up behind a guy already talking to a clerk.

I stare right at her trying to give her dagger eyes, but she looks at me without a care in the world. She’s pressed right up to the guy to ensure she gets next service at the counter. When that guy leaves she steps up, and of course the service person doesn’t even care, and I call out to her, “Excuse me, I’m next”. She pretends she had no idea there was a line and pretends to apologize. But her face said it all, ‘Fuck you’.

With people posted downstairs I go back up and I’m checking out the conference. One of the hotel staff sidles up to me and starts asking me questions. He wants something. In my entire time in India, only one person, a little girl in Rishikesh came up to me and said, “Hallooo” and shook my hand without wanting something, everybody else wants something from me in this country, usually money, they just come up with their hands out and don’t go away, ever, nobody just wants to talk to me to be nice. Finally he gets to the point.

“It is my dream to go to America. Take me to America and I will help you in your life.”

Sorry buddy, the only person who can help me in my life is a six foot Icelandic blonde named Inga and her heavenly lotions.

I go back downstairs and realize our folks are gone or doing nothing. I take up my place and grab Kovi as well. I step in front of the little guy Digger Guy has and direct people upstairs. Digger Guy comes out and sees what I’m doing, I ignore him as I’m winning. I can play passive aggressive too, you don’t exist buddy.

He goes back and gets a second person, but I’m larger than your average Indian and I’m aggressive-aggressive, blocking the traffic flow, shoving brochures into people’s hands, and directing them upstairs.

I was trying to figure out why Gopi’s employee we sent downstairs wasn’t there. He pays her big money for India because she has an M.B.A. He had a hard time finding good people and was forced to pay up. But in India an M.B.A. is a dime a dozen now. They churn them out in M.B.A. mills because Americans are stupid enough to believe that an M.B.A. is a big deal. You should see the signs for M.B.A. schools, there’s more of them than Pepsi signs.

Gopi says that there were two Universities within 100 Kilometers twenty years ago, now there are fifty. Anybody can open a University, they do not take accreditation seriously here. And American’s don’t know if an Indian school is good or not, all they see on the resume is M.B.A. Oh, and don’t forget that I know some very smart Indians who have admitted they bribed their instructors for good grades.

I’ve always joked with my Indian friends that I’m going to write a book about Indians in America as they are the first ethnic group to come in at the top. They’re doctors, software engineers, professionals, etc. Everybody else, my ancestors included, started at the bottom and worked their way up. Their children have nowhere to go but down.

They laugh at first and then realize it’s a truism and get scared, “No! That’s not going to happen”. But look at your kids, they’re the spoiled Nintendo generation.

Indians had two things going for them in the modern world economy, first the British colonialism made English the default common language. India has dozens of recognized languages but since English was spoken everywhere it became the default. And second they had the Indian Institute of Technology (IIT). IIT had an incorruptible test which weeded out all but the best and the brightest among one billion Indians. And when you start with a billion people and whittle them down to a few thousand, you’ve got a lot of smart Indians.

The first batches of these IIT grads started showing up in the 1980’s. The U.S. only allowed 16,000 H1-B (work) visas a year. This was doubled and then doubled again, and then doubled a third time when employers saw the quality they were getting.

H1-B visas are supposed to fill skilled positions that American companies can’t find skilled people for already in the U.S. They have to be able to prove this too.

What few people know is what a slavery racket it has become. An Indian guy named Balaji would open up a company, get one hundred H1-B’s allocated and import people. When asked by Immigration why they were needed he would refer them to his friend Alok who said he needed 100 Java programmers. At the same time, Alok was doing the same thing, he would refer Immigration to his friend Balaji and they’d get to import 200 people between them.

The imported Indians wanted to stay in America and applied for permanent residency. It was almost impossible to switch jobs once here without starting over on your green card application. It’s still difficult to do. Thus Balaji and Alok would contract out these employees at high rates, pay them nothing, and get rich. Quite a racket, H1-B slavery.

By the late 90’s there was a veritable flood coming in as the H1-B’s reached over 128,000 and quality was dropping fast.

One day my friend Harish said, “I’ve never met a stupid Indian in America”.

“I have”, I responded. I’d noticed that no longer were the top people coming in, everybody was bringing in his cousin’s brother-in-law as a high tech candidate because he could spell ‘software’. But by then American managers had been hornswoggled into believing all Indians were brilliant.

I sat in a meeting one time with an Indian project leader who could barely speak English, mumbled to make it worse, and had no idea what he was talking about. When I pointed this out to his bosses, they were uncomfortable with my accusations; after all, he was Indian, he must be brilliant. The fact they couldn’t understand him proved it.

A few days later Harish came in to my office, “I see what you mean”.

So Gopi’s M.B.A. wasn’t downstairs. Why? Because she felt uncomfortable doing such a menial task, after all she was an M.B.A. Gopi pointed out to her that I was down there and it was not beneath me, but like Gandhi, she could not be moved.

Gopi was super frustrated with her and his other M.B.A. as they couldn’t produce a thing. They expected to come to work late, do nothing except say ‘Yes, Boss’, and get paid; after all, that’s why they got an MBA, right? And these were the best candidates out of 25 he interviewed!

Digger Guy knows he’s licked, he sees I’m being successful and kind of declares a truce. His guys direct people in both directions as do we. I’m still pissed, but now he’s impressed with me and asks me to sit down with him.

“What software can you give me?” he asks. He doesn’t even want Gopi’s software, he wants something even more new and exotic and thinks I’m hiding it.

Oh good grief, everybody wants something from me here, and they don’t want to pay for it, and they want to make sure you don’t sell it to anybody else. Gopi has people trying to bargain him down on price for everything.

“Twenty dollars a month is too much”, they say.

“How much do you think it is worth”, he responds.

“Eighteen dollars”

Yes, that two dollars a month will break them. They don’t understand that he can’t keep track of a different negotiated payment plan for each customer. The price is the price. That goes against Indian tradition.

Most of them are still trying to game ways of stealing his software. It’s tradition in India, everybody’s got a friend who can hack any software available. Or they say this friend can create the same thing for $70, even though it has cost Gopi a thousand times that already. And the best one is when they get their software installed for a pittance and insist that he not sell this to anybody else. Yes, there’s a good business plan.

To make it worse, good customer service, calling the customer and being prompt and courteous is considered bad form. They think ‘he needs me more than I need him’ and don’t return his calls. Or he makes an appointment and they just don’t show up.

So poor Gopi’s taken to not answering anybody’s call until the third time they call him. The fact that he’s not returning their calls means he’s an important person. He puts people off and acts like he doesn’t care. Then they clamor for him.

When the day breaks off, Digger Guy comes up to the sponsor of the event and thanks him profusely in front of us for ‘allowing’ him to be part of the event. “I owe you so much”, “I thank you very much”. What a cad.

“Thank you for allowing me to fuck you. I really enjoyed fucking you. If given an opportunity again I will fuck you even harder”.

And that, my friends, is how you do business in India.

The Little Girl

Haridwar is a place where India hits you right in the face. So much pain, suffering, and joy all intertwined. The colors, the music, the dirt, the filth, the grime, the Holy Ganges, the noise, the food, the smells, the cows, the Virgin Mobile signs, the temples, the rich, the poor, the barely existing on this earth, gathered together all in one spot. Kind of like an Indian version of Hollywood Boulevard.

There’s much more to Haridwar, but the beggars stand out to an American. Jezuz, looking at these guys made me want to smack the beggars I see in San Francisco and tell them they’re just pathetic posers.

Kovi surprised me by buying a bunch of beggars some tea a couple of times. He’d admonished me that I was giving too much money away when I gave 100 rupees. But this was good logic, he was buying them food directly. Even in India beggars sometimes just use the money for drugs.

The beggars in Haridwar seemed to come in three denominations. The first were the Sadhus, the holy men. With their robes and brightly painted faces they were the top level of beggar. But none of them struck me as particularly holy. Their aggressive begging and superior attitude put me off. They all looked healthy and strong. I never gave any of them money.

The second level were the general beggars, those who would hassle you continuously, follow you around, watch to see if you gave anybody money, and pounce if you showed any sign of weakness. This might include children as well. But I always looked at the clothes and health. Some of them were well fed or had clean colorful clothing. These too I generally avoided.

The third level were the mind bogglingly lowly semi-human refuse who’s presence made you feel ashamed to be so filthy rich. I saw one old woman absolutely covered in flies, and I mean a hundred flies, sitting with her palm out, in true need. Sweet death lurked nearby.

The next day I had purchased a carrot and I passed by her while she slept. She was covered up in her rags, but one hand stuck out. I figured putting money in her hand would be stolen or blow away, but perhaps a carrot would be a good gift when she awoke. I placed it in her hand and the other beggars watched me. Would they steal her carrot?

Nope. I ended up passing by the same way an hour later and the old woman was still asleep, carrot in hand. I guess there’s honor among beggars.

I saw no less than two crippled guys on what could only be described as large skateboards, making their way through the crowds. One guy was lying face down, moving a small begging bowl in front of him, then pushing himself with his arms forward through the crowd. I believe he was reciting prayers. This was the only guy I saw Indian’s giving money to.

There was one blind beggar singing songs and strumming on an instrument. He reminded me of my Eastern Religions instructor in college. He’d been in seminary school and just before graduation had taken an Eastern Religions class that had opened his eyes. He’d quit everything and made his way to India, living like an Indian, not an American.

At one spot he’d seen a blind beggar woman holding a bowl, smiling, and singing hymns to Krishna.

“In her face, was a joy that I’ve never known”, he said, obviously jealous.

He’d made his way to a famous guru who had literally thousands of people showing up for a special gathering. He’d been thinking that morning that things were crowded, he’d seen what he came to see, and he should leave the next day, but he didn’t mention this to anyone, besides he didn’t know anybody anyway.

The guru had come by giving some blessed cow dung ash, vibuthi, to everyone as they knelt in rows. Yes, you read that right, the ash is holy apparently, I forget, but I think you’re supposed to eat it.

When the guru got to my instructor he stopped and said, “I understand you’re leaving us tomorrow” and smiled. My instructor was dumbstruck and the guru moved on. Some gurus are genuine.

My instructor eventually embraced Buddhism got married and settled down. He told his wife that he loved her unconditionally, there was nothing she could do that would change his mind. Then about five years in, he converted to Catholicism. He said he had to get back to Christianity by an Eastern route.

At about the same time his wife told him she wanted to have sex with other men, after all, he’d always said she could do anything and he’d love her. He was shocked and couldn’t give his consent.

“I liked you better as a Buddhist”, she said, and left. I guess even unconditional love has it’s limits.

I made sure to give the blind beggar coins so he’d know what he got.

How much to give people weighed heavily on my mind. Crossing a bridge I’d seen a guy missing both hands. I held out a 100 rupee note (only $2, but again, a day’s pay in India, I didn’t dare give away more or I might be torn limb from limb, plus I didn’t carry much cash myself) and he pinched it between his two stumps.

“Your parents cut off both your hands so you’d be a more successful beggar”, I thought, “Good God, aren't you the lucky one”.

Walking on the bridge out of Haridwar I saw a young disheveled girl, possibly six, who looked maybe four, working like a dog creating small ochre colored trinkets for the tourists. She was the same age as my cute, little, slightly spoiled, blond haired, blue eyed, niece who lives in Palo Alto, a few blocks from Steve Jobs, and who’s biggest care in the world is that her shoes match her dress.

I asked the little girl for permission to take a picture and she gave me the Indian head bob. I took a couple of quick pictures, and gave her some rupees, but it is hard to even take pictures of such suffering. It seems such a violation of people’s dignity.

She did not look happy. I doubt she ever played much. She had probably been working as soon as she was old enough. To quote Neil Young, this little girl will never go to school, never get to fall in love, never get to be cool. She will be doing this her whole life. She’ll be married off to somebody else in the same straits as her, probably immediately after puberty, and have some kids who will end up working just as hard as her at just as young an age. I saw no sign of her parents, she knew her job and was doing it.

I never tried to look away, but I never stared at anybody’s misery either.
But when you’re looking at a little six year old girl,
working in one hundred degree heat,
covered in ochre dust,
doing the same thing she did yesterday to be able to eat,
and you know she’ll be doing the same thing tomorrow,
and she won’t have a day off from her toil,
because when you’re poor there are no weekends,
or holidays,
to relax,
kick back,
pop a coke,
and enjoy a birthday party;
you can’t actually stop to think about it,
because you realize there’s virtually nothing you can do,
you know she’ll haunt you the rest of your days,
but you can’t sweep her up in your arms and rescue her,
it’s not allowed,
she has a life,
parents,
a culture,
a government;
so you have to close down your heart,
swallow your anger,
sigh at the futility of it all,
and walk away,
otherwise you would just sit down and cry.

And never stop.

The Hindu Priest

Temples




Waiting for the Aarti





Bathing in the Ganges



Chanting



Offerings



Burn baby burn




Aarti




DEV!



We’re in Haridwar – God’s Gate or Gateway to God. This is the first large city where the Ganges river comes spilling out from the Himalyas into the flat Ganges plain. Devotees flock here every day to bathe in the river and wash away their sins. Most people come here once a year to do so. Every 12 years there is a Kumbh Mela where literally millions show up. During the Kumbh Mela I’m told they cannot park closer than 30 kilometers so they have to walk and/or take a rickshaw. There’s a huge statue of Shiva by the town.

We parked at a nearby garage and took a rickshaw into town. I don’t like the rickshaw’s, but Kovi was in an automobile accident as a young man that kept him in a coma for six months, his recovery leaves him a bit wobbly and his voice is slurred. Sometimes people are rude because they think he’s drunk.

I sit outside the hotel while Kovi gets the room. Better to negotiate before they see an American and triple the price. A sadhu walks up to me and begs for money. A small time pushcart merchant stands nearby rearranging his wares and cleaning them.

I’ve been broken of giving beggars money now, it’s become obvious that any generosity on my part is met with further demands from the masses. Every now and then if I see someone seriously in need, I’ll quickly sneak them some money before anybody notices. Otherwise I’m deluged with people and I can’t tell who’s in real need or who’s just a scammer. What’s also become obvious is that it is true that some parents/guardians cut off their children’s hand or foot in order for them to become more productive beggars. The wounds are always in the same place.

I refuse the Sadhu money, he looks like he’s in good shape, unlike a beggar woman against the wall. The Sadhu finally walks away and the merchant gives him the evil eye. I know that look, it says, ‘Get a job hippie’.

We got a great hotel with a room overlooking the Ganges. Right here the river is channeled into a large canal cemented on both sides. The river runs surprisingly fast and is thick with the minerals from the Himalayas. Not to mention the trash from upstream.
Walking across the bridge I noticed a sadhu throw some garbage into the sacred Ganges. Kind of explains a lot about India.

This is it, The Holy Ganges. I’ve seen films of this since I was a kid and now I could experience it myself. It’s pretty much as you would imagine. Thousands of people kind of camped out, if you can call sitting on the ground in the open air camping. Beggars, touts, rickshaws, sadhus, tourist shops, restaurants, the works. The sights, the sounds, and the smells overwhelm you. Life is in your face 24/7.

I’ve been in India over a week and have not been to a real Hindu temple. Kovi said there were a bunch in town so off we went. The first took me by surprise because it was brightly painted, large, and fairly new. It turned out to be a copy of a temple in Kashmir. We followed a prescribed path, through, over, and around the temple. Gods and goddesses were arranged for proper viewing. After about 20 minutes we emerged back in the front. That was odd.

Next door was another temple, brightly painted, and fairly new. Not much there to see though, just one big room with some statues.

We walked down to a third temple and this one had a fee to enter a certain area. Inside were roboticized plaster of paris representations of Krishna and other deities, telling their life story. Finally I was able to make out what was going on. I was surprised to find robots in a temple, but on reflection I realized European churches did the same thing with paintings, frescos, and stained glass. They were there to tell a religious story to an illiterate people. This was for the visitors.

“These temples are new”, I told Kovi. I wanted old temples.

“These temples are not new, they’re 50 years old”.

Oh, I get it, they were built in the time of Disney, no wonder they seemed so Disneyesq.

“They remind me of Disneyland”, I say.

“Americans do not have many Gods, therefore they need Disneyland”, he responded. There’s some wisdom there.

Afterwards we drove away down the same road I saw what looked like a Hindu Fisherman’s Wharf, games, attractions, and food.

Around dusk we made our way to an area sitting across a small conduit of the Ganges from an old temple. That’s the temple I want to see, ancient, almost 1000 years old. People bought small plastic mats and we were told to sit down and crowd closer to the edge. Many people had bought flower filled leaf baskets with candles in them to float in the river. People across the river had gotten in and were splashing around and dunking themselves.

“Would you like to go in?” Kovi asked.

“No way I’m going in that water Bubba”. I knew what was really in that water. We sat for a long while and I was wondering what was the point of all this. That and where was a bathroom if some of these thousands had to go? Oh, yeah, nevermind.

Finally a loudspeaker started up and the people responded as one.

“DEV!”

Another chant and, “DEV!”, again. This was the formal beginning of the Aarti.

There’s something about thousands of people raising their voices in unison that sends shivers down your spine. This was pretty cool. Some girls next to us covered their heads as part of the ritual. There was lots more chanting and then a chant of Hari Ganga (Holy Ganga) was played. I relaxed into it and began chanting myself.

After a few minutes I realized I was one of only a few chanting, at least where we were sitting.

“Why isn’t anybody chanting?” I asked Kovi.

“They’re mostly tourists, not devotees” he answered.

“Hmmm, I must be a devotee”, I thought and continued chanting.

Now when I say tourists, I don’t mean Western tourists. During my whole stay in Hardiwar I only saw three other Westerners, and they had obviously gone native and been living here for a few decades. Their clothing was old and soiled and their hair matted. You know guys, you can always bathe in the Ganges.

There was more chanting, and a couple of songs. Then they lit some big cauldrons with fire by the temple and everybody oohed and ahhed. It was pretty cool. Some people took their flowers down to the river a few feet away. Then it was over. Not that long, but pretty interesting. Thank goodness it wasn’t Stations of the Cross.

We were getting up to go when a priest type person came up to us and told me I could have a prayer. Cool thing.

I’ve always told people I’m a Hindu at heart. My friends have brought me small statues of Hindu Gods over the years. I have such a collection on my desk that people who don’t know better, think an Indian sits there.

Western religions are exclusive, our god is the right God, your God is wrong. Hinduism is inclusive, all are accepted. Also the multitude of the Gods in Hinduism is really just different manifestations of the one God Brahama, the eternal, unchanging, infinite, and transcendent reality which is the Divine Ground of all matter, energy, time, space, and being (I stole that from Wikipedia). The individual Gods are more like Catholic Saints, each one with their own special story and powers.

My friends took me to a Hindu temple in Livermore years ago and I remembered that one of them had paid for a prayer. I was a bit taken aback because she literally had to pay at a desk for the prayer and then she gave the priest the receipt. I’m not sure that’s quite legal from an IRS perspective, I thought it has to be a donation, not a fixed fee. The priest chanted his prayer while she sat and meditated. The priest looked bored and was barely paying attention.

I’m told Hindu priests have no power in the Hindu religion, another plus as far as I was concerned. They don’t get to tell people how to live their lives. They don’t get to interpret the Vedas to suit their own political/social philosophy. They just recite the prayers, that’s it. And this priest was bored out of his mind, he’d done this prayer a dozen times today and would do it a dozen more.

After it was over I told my friend that the priest wasn’t focused on the prayer.

“That’s okay”, she said, “I was”.

Wow, in Christianity you really feel reliant on the priest, after all, he’s got God’s good housekeeping seal of approval. If he screws up the prayer you’re in trouble. You’re always worried that after you leave he’ll tell God, “Nevermind”.

Hinduism is very personal. If you really talk to Hindu’s about it they will tell you you’re not praying to a God up in the sky or in the idol, you’re praying to the God within you.

So now I get my own prayer at the River Ganges no less. I take off my shoes and the priest brings me down to the cement steps in the river. I’m only going ankle deep. That’s as far as I’m getting in the water, and my first prayer is that I don’t fall in. That water is rushing fast.

I fold my hands together and he starts the prayer. I don’t know what to do, so I repeat what he says. He asks me my name. Then he asks me my father’s name. Then my mother’s name. Then my sister’s name. Then my Grandparents names. This goes on for about a minute.

“Donation”, he says.

I’m pretty sure the prayer isn’t finished, so I pull out 50 rupees ($1) which you have to understand is a lot of money here. A bottle of water cost’s seven cents, not two-fifty like the states.

“500 Rupees”, he says.

“What?” I can’t believe my ears. That’s about a weeks wages here. No way I’m paying that much, my hotel isn’t that much more. I look at Kovi to see if that’s a correct amount, he indicates I shouldn’t pay it. I pull out 100 rupees and hand it to him. He takes the money.

“500 Rupees”, he repeats.

“No, one hundred”, I’m irritated.

“500 Rupees. Prayer is for your whooooolllle family”. He reaches out and places his palm on my chest. There’s a couple of other assistants with him and they’re all touching me and telling me to pay.

I’m really getting pissed now. This Priest scumbag is holding my family hostage? I’m sick of this. All you want is money?

No wonder you guys can’t convert anybody. Do you realize if I were dealing with a Mormon Priest (most adult males are priests) he would take me in, feed me, wash me, clothe me, get me a job, and provide shelter for me all in the hope I might convert? And all you guys do is paw at me and hassle me for more money because I’m an American? You call yourself a priest? Get the fuck off me! I push them away and climb the stairs to go.

Another priest begs me to go back, “It’s okay, no problem. No problem”, he repeats again and again. I want the prayer finished and Kovi indicates I should, so I relent. I walk back down, put my feet in the water, and face the priest.

“200 Rupees”, he says. His assistants chime in.

That’s it, all anybody has done since I’ve come to this country is hassle me for money. There is no Holy India I realize, just a country filled with fast talking hustlers. The beggars all know better English than anybody else. You call this a religion? I turn to go again.

They realize the game is up, I’m not giving in. They shove the flower bowl in my hand and light the candle. I toss the bowl in the river disgustedly and immediately the candle goes out.

“Yeah, well I’m not to thrilled with you either Shiva”.

I’m furious on the walk back to the hotel. To make things worse these guys on motorcycles think nothing of driving at high speed through the jam packed crowds in these tiny streets. Touch one of them to balance yourself and they glare at you. I’m so ticked off that I take to kicking their exhaust pipes while they pass. Two guys on one glare back at me.

Yeah, give it a try buddy. You think you’re tough? You’re looking at a pissed off American. Did you see what we did to Iraq over nothing? Just give me a reason. I’ll bring down a house of pain on you like you wouldn’t believe.

See that statue there? That’s a nice club. And the bronze of the cosmic dance of Shiva and all those sharp points? Lots of soft tissue work there. And in the end I’ll be able to bribe the police to have you keel hauled in the river. I’ll make you regret you ever so much as honked your horn at me.

I got back to the room, washed up, and looked in the mirror. My clean white polo shirt had sooty hand prints all over it. It had been sullied by the hands of the Hindu priest, just like he’d sullied my clean pure soul.